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MIND  AMONGST  THE  SPINDLES. 

3  iWisccllamj, 

WHOLLY  COMPOSED  BY  THE  FACTORY  GIRLS 

SELECTED  FROM  THE 

LOWELL    OFFERING. 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY  THE  ENGLISH  EDITOR, 


AKD    A    LETTER    FROM 


HAKRIET  MARTIXEAU. 


BOSTON  : 

J  (n  D  A  N  ,     SWIFT     £     W  I  L  E  Y 
1845. 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION.     By  the  English  Editor 

Abby's  Year  in  Lowell 

The  First  Wedding  in  Salmagundi 

"  Bless,  and  curse  not  "     . 

Ancient  Poetry     . 

The  Spirit  of  Discontent    . 

The  Whortleberry  Excursion 

The  Western  Antiquities  . 

The  Fig  Tree  .  •     45 

Village  Pastors       .  49 

The  Sugar-Making  Excursion  . 

Prejudice  against  Labor     . 

Joan  of  Arc 

Susan  Miller          .  , 

Scenes  on  the  Merrimac 

The  First  Bells     . 

Evening  before  Pay-Day 

The  Indian  Pledge  H8 

The  First  Dish  of  Tea 

Leisure  Hours  of  the  Mill  Girls     .  122 

The  Tomb  of  Washington         .  •   136 

Life  among  Farmers 

A  Weaver's  Reverie     .  •  147 

Our  Duty  to  Strangers       .  150 

Elder  Isaac  Townsend  .  .  .  -152 


CONTENTS. 


Harriet  Greenough 

Fancy  . 

The  Widow's  Son 

Witchcraft 

Cleaning  Up 

Visits  to  the  Shakers 

The  Lock  of  Gray  Hair     . 

Lament  of  the  little  Hunchback  . 

This  World  is  not  our  Home 

Dignity  of  Labor 

The  Village  Chronicle 

Ambition  and  Contentment 

A  Conversation  on  Physiology 


153 

.  161 

163 

.  167 

170 

.  172 

178 
.  183 

185 
.  187 

188 
.  197 

199 


INTRODUCTION,  BY  THE  ENGLISH  EDITOR. 


IN  the  American  state  of  Massachusetts,  one  of  the  New 
England  states,  which  was  colonized  by  the  stern  Puritans 
who  were  driven  from  our  country  by  civil  and  religious 
persecution,  has  sprung  up  within  the  last  thirty  years  the 
largest  manufacturing  town  of  the  vast  republic.  Lowell  is 
situated  not  a  great  distance  from  Boston,  at  the  confluence 
of  the  rivers  Merrimac  and  Concord.  The  falls  of  these 
rivers  here  afford  a  nutural  moving  power  for  machinery  ; 
and  at  the  latter  end  of  the  year  1813  a  small  cotton  manu 
facture  was  here  set  up,  where  the  sound  of  labor  had  not 
been  heard  before.  The  original  adventure  was  not  a 
prosperous  one.  But  in  1826  the  works  were  bought  by  a 
company  or  corporation  ;  and  from  that  time  Lowell  has 
gone  on  so  rapidly  increasing  that  it  is  now  held  to  be  "  the 
greatest  manufacturing  city  in  America."  According  to 
Mr.  Buckingham,  there  are  now  ten  companies  occupying 
or  working  thirty  mills,  and  giving  employment  to  more 
than  10,000  operatives,  of  whom  7,000  are  females.  The 
situation  of  the  female  population  is,  for  the  most  part,  a 
peculiar  one.  Unlike  the  greater  number  of  the  young 
women  in  our  English  factories,  they  are  not  brought  up  to 
the  labor  of  the  mills,  amongst  parents  who  are  also  workers 
in  factories.  They  come  from  a  distance  ;  many  of  them 
remain  only  a  limited  time ;  and  they  live  in  boarding  houses 
expressly  provided  for  their  accommodation.  Miss  Mar- 


VI  INTRODUCTION. 

tineau,  in  her  "  Society  in  America,"  explains  the  cause 
not  only  of  the  large  proportion  of  females  in  the  Lowell 
mills,  but  also  of  their  coming  from  distant  parts  in  search 
of  employment :  "Manufactures  can  to  a  considerable  de 
gree  be  carried  on  by  the  labor  of  women ;  and  there  is  a 
great  number  of  unemployed  women  in  New  England,  from 
the  circumstance  that  the  young  men  of  that  region  wander 
away  in  search  of  a  settlement  on  the  land,  and  after  being 
settled  find  wives  in  the  south  and  west."  Again,  she  says, 
"  Many  of  the  girls  are  in  the  factories  because  they  have 
too  much  pride  for  domestic  service." 

In  October,  1840,  appeared  the  first  number  of  a  periodical 
work  entitled  "  The  Lowell  Offering."  The  publication 
arose  out  of  the  meetings  of  an  association  of  young  women 
called  "  The  Mutual  Improvement  Society."  It  has  con 
tinued  at  intervals  of  a  month  or  six  weeks,  and  the  first 
volume  was  completed  in  December,  1841.  A  second 
volume  was  concluded  in  1842.  The  work  was  under  the 
direction  of  an  editor,  who  gives  his  name  at  the  end  of  the 
second  volume,  —  Abel  C.  Thomas.  The  duties  which  this 
gentleman  performed  are  thus  stated  by  him  in  the  preface 
to  the  first  volume  :  — 

"  The  two  most  important  questions  which  may  be 
suggested  shall  receive  due  attention. 

"  1st.  Are  all  the  articles,  in  good  faith  and  exclusively 
the  productions  of  females  employed  in  the  mills  ?  We 
reply,  unhesitatingly  and  without  reserve,  that  THEY  ARE, 
the  verses  set  to  music  excepted.  We  speak  from  personal 
acquaintance  with  all  the  writers,  excepting  four  ;  and  in 
relation  to  the  latter  (whose  articles  do  not  occupy  eight 
pages  in  the  aggregate)  we  had  satisfactory  proof  that  they 
were  employed  in  the  mills. 

"  2d.  Have  not  the  articles  been  materially  amended  by 
the  exercise  of  the  editorial  prerogative  ?  We  answer, 


INTRODUCTION.  VU 

THEY  HAVE  NOT.  We  have  taken  less  liberty  with  the 
articles  than  editors  usually  take  with  the  productions  of 
other  than  the  most  experienced  writers.  Our  corrections 
and  additions  have  been  so  slight  as  to  be  unworthy  of 
special  note." 

Of  the  merits  of  the  compositions  contained  in  these 
volumes  their  editor  speaks  with  a  modest  confidence,  in 
which  he  is  fully  borne  out  by  the  opinions  of  others  :  — 

"  In  estimating  the  talent  of  the  writers  for  the  '  Offering,' 
the  fact  should  be  remembered,  that  they  are  actively  em 
ployed  in  the  mills  for  more  than  twelve  hours  out  of  every 
twenty-four.  The  evening,  after  eight  o'clock,  affords  their 
only  opportunity  for  composition  ;  and  whoever  will  consider 
the  sympathy  between  mind  and  body,  must  be  sensible  that 
a  day  of  constant  manual  employment,  even  though  the 
labor  be  not  excessive,  must  in  some  measure  unfit  the 
individual  for  the  full  development  of  mental  power.  Yet 
the  articles  in  this  volume  ask  no  unusual  indulgence  from 
the  critics — for,  in  the  language  of  '  The  North  American 
Quarterly  Review,'  —  'many  of  the  articles  are  such  as 
satisfy  the  reader  at  once,  that  if  he  has  only  taken  up  the 
4  Offering  '  as  a  phenomenon,  and  not  as  what  may  bear 
criticism  and  reward  perusal,  he  has  but  to  own  his  error, 
and  dismiss  his  condescension,  as  soon  as  may  be.'  " 

The  two  volumes  thus  completed  in  1842  were  lent  to  us 
by  a  lady  whose  well-earned  literary  reputation  gave  us  the 
assurance  that  she  would  not  bestow  her  praise  upon  a  work 
whose  merit  merely  consisted  in  the  remarkable  circumstance 
that  it  was  written  by  young  women,  not  highly  educated, 
during  the  short  leisure  afforded  by  their  daily  laborious  em 
ployments.  She  told  us  that  we  should  find  in  those  volumes 
some  things  which  might  be  read  with  pleasure  and  improve 
ment.  And  yet  we  must  honestly  confess  that  we  looked  at 
the  perusal  of  these  closely-printed  eight  hundred  pages  as 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION. 

something  of  a  task.  We  felt  that  all  literary  productions, and 
indeed  all  works  of  art,  should,  in  a  great  degree,  be  judged 
vithout  reference  to  the  condition  of  the  producer.  "VVtien 
we  take  up  the  poems  of  Burns,  we  never  think  that  he  was 
a  ploughman  and  an  exciseman  ;  but  we  have  a  painful 
remembrance  of  having  read  a  large  quarto  volume  of  verses 
by  Ann  Yearsly,  who  was  patronized  in  her  day  by  Horace 
Walpole  and  Hannah  More,  and  to  have  felt  only  the  con 
viction  that  the  milk  woman  of  Bristol,  for  such  was  their 
authoress,  had  better  have  limited  her  learning  to  the  score 
and  the  tally.  But  it  was  a  duty  to  read  the  "  Lowell 
Offering."  The  day  that  saw  us  begin  the  first  paper  was 
witness  to  our  continued  reading  till  night  found  us  busy  at 
the  last  page,  not  for  a  duty,  but  a  real  pleasure. 

The  qualities  which  most  struck  us  in  these  volumes  were 
chiefly  these  :"  First  —  there   is   an   entire   absence   of  all 
pretension  in  the  writers  to  be  what  they  are  not.     They  are 
factory  girls.    They  always  call  themselves  "  girls."    They 
fhave  no  desire  to  be  fine  ladies,  nor  do  they  call  themselves 
."ladies,"    as   the   common  fashion   is  of  most  American 
5  females.     They  have  no  affectations  of  gentility  ;  and  by  a 
natural  consequence  they  are  essentially  free  from  all  vul 
garity.     They  describe  the  scenes  amongst  which  they  live, 
their  labors  and  their  pleasures,  the  little  follies  of  some  of 
their  number,  the  pure  tastes  and  unexpensive  enjoyments 
I  of  others.     They  feel,  and  constantly  proclaim  without  any 
1  effort,  that  they  think  it  an  honor  to  labor  with  their  hands. 
They  recognize  the  real  dignity  of  all  useful  employments. 
They  know  that  there  is  no  occupation  really  unworthy  of 
men  or  women,  but   the   selfish   pursuits  of  what  is  called 
pleasure,  without  the  desire  to  promote  the  good  of  others 
by  physical,  intellectual,  or  moral  exertions.     Secondly  — 
many  of  these  papers  clearly  show  under  what  influences 
these  young  women  have  been  brought  up.     An  earnest 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 

feeling  of  piety  pervades  their  recollections  of  the  past,  and 
their  hopes  for  the  future.  The  thoughts  of  home,  too,  lie 
deep  in  their  hearts.  They  are  constantly  describing  the 
secluded  farm-house  where  they  were  reared,  the  mother's 
love,  the  father's  labors.  Sometimes  a  reverse  of  fortune 
falling  upon  a  family  has  dispersed  its  once  happy  members. 
Sometimes  we  see  visions  of  past  household  joy  through 
the  orphan's  tears.  Not  unfrequently  the  ardent  girl,  happy 
in  the  confirmed  affection  of  some  equal  in  rank,  looks  ex- 
ultingly  towards  the  day  when  she  may  carry  back  from  the 
savings'  bank  at  Lowell  a  little  dower  to  furnish  out  their 
little  farm  on  the  hill  side,  where  the  barberries  grew,  so 
deliciously  red  and  sour,  in  her  remembrance  of  childhood. 
Thirdly  —  there  is  a  genuine  patriotism  in  the  tone  of  many 
of  these  productions,  which  is  worthy  the  descendants  of  the 
stern  freemen  who,  in  the  New  England  solitudes,  looked 
tearfully  back  upon  their  fatherland.  The  institutions  under 
which  these  young  women  live  are  different  from  our  own  ; 
but  there  is  scarcely  a  particle  of  what  we  have  been  too  apt 
to  call  republican  arrogance.  The  War  of  Independence  is 
spoken  of  as  it  ought  to  be  by  every  American,  with  feelings 
of  honest  exultation.  But  that  higher  sentiments  than  those 
of  military  triumph  mingle  with  the  memory  of  that  war,  and 
render  patriotism  something  far  nobler  than  mere  national 
pride,  may  be  seen  in  the  little  poem  which  we  gladly  re 
print,  "  The  Tomb  of  Washington."  The  paper  called 
"  The  Lock  of  Gray  Hair  "  is  marked  by  an  honest  nation 
ality,  which  we  would  be  ashamed  not  to  reverence. — 
Fourthly  —  like  all  writers  of  good  natural  taste,  who  have 
not  been  perverted  into  mere  imitators  of  other  writers,  they 
perceive  that  there  is  a  great  source  of  interest  in  describing, 
simply  and  correctly,  what  they  have  witnessed  with  their 
own  eyes.  Thus,  some  of  the  home  pictures  of  these 
volumes  are  exceedingly  agreeable,  presenting  to  us  man- 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

ners  and  habits  wholly  different  from  our  own,  and  scenes 
which  have  all  the  freshness  of  truth  in  their  delineations. — 
The  old  stories,  too,  which  they  sometimes  tell  of  past  life 
in  America,  are  equally  interesting  ;  and  they  show  us  how 
deeply  in  all  minds  is  implanted  the  love  of  old  things, 
which  are  tenderly  looked  back  upon,  even  though  they  may 
have  been  swept  away  by  what  is  real  improvement. — 
Lastly — although  there  are  necessarily  in  these  volumes, 
as  in  every  miscellany,  some  things  which  are  tedious,  and 
some  puerile,  mock  sentimentalities  and  labored  efforts  at 
fine  writing,  we  think  it  would  be  difficult  upon  the  whole 
for  a  large  body  of  contributors,  writing  under  great  indul 
gence,  to  produce  so  much  matter  with  so  little  bad  taste. 
Of  pedantry  there  is  literally  none.  The  writers  are 
familiar  with  good  models  of  composition ;  they  know 
something  of  ancient  and  modern  history  ;  the  literature  of 
England  has  reached  them,  and  given  a  character  and  direc 
tion  to  their  thoughts.  But  there  is  never  any  attempt  to 
parade  what  they  know  ;  and  we  see  they  have  been  read 
ers,  only  as  we  discover  the  same  thing  in  the  best  educated 
persons,  not  in  a  display  of  their  reading,  but  in  a  general 
tone  which  shows  that  cultivation  has  made  them  wiser  and 
better. 

Such  were  the  opinions  we  had  formed  of  "  The  Lowell 
Offering,"  before  we  were  acquainted  with  the  judgment 
pronounced  upon  the  same  book  by  a  writer  whose  original 
and  brilliant  genius  is  always  under  the  direction  of  kindly 
feelings  towards  his  fellow-creatures,  and  especially  towards 
the  poor  and  lowly  of  his  human  brethren.  Mr.  Dickens, 
in  his  "American  Notes,"  thus  mentions  "The  Lowell 
Offering,"  of  which  he  says,  "  I  brought  away  from  Lowell 
four  hundred  good  solid  pages,  which  I  have  read  from  be 
ginning  to  end:"  — "Of  the  merits  of  'The  Lowell 
Offering,'  as  a  literary  production,  I  will  only  observe, 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

putting  entirely  out  of  sight  the  fact  of  the  articles  having 
been  written  by  these  girls  after  the  arduous  labors  of  the 
day,  that  it  will  compare  advantageously  with  a  great  many 
English  annuals.  It  is  pleasant  to  find  that  many  of  its 
tales  are  of  the  mills  and  of  those  who  work  in  them  ;  that 
they  inculcate  habits  of  self-denial  and  contentment,  and 
teach  good  doctrines  of  enlarged  benevolence.  A  strong 
feeling  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  as  displayed  in  the  soli 
tudes  the  writers  have  left  at  home,  breathes  through  its 
pages  like  wholesome  village  air  ;  and  though  a  circulating 
library  is  a  favorable  school  for  the  study  of  such  topics,  it 
has  very  scant  allusion  to  fine  clothes,  fine  marriages,  fine 
houses,  or  fine  life.  Some  persons  might  object  to  the  papers 
being  signed  occasionally  with  rather  fine  names,  but  this  is 
an  American  fashion.  One  of  the  provinces  of  the  state 
legislature  of  Massachusetts  is  to  alter  ugly  names  into 
pretty  ones,  as  the  children  improve  upon  the  tastes  of  their 
parents." 

If  the  separate  articles  in  "  The  Lowell  Offering  "  bear 
signatures  which  represent  distinct  writers,  we  have,  in  our 
selection  of  thirty-seven  articles,  given  the  productions  of 
twenty-nine  individual  contributors.  It  is  this  circumstance 
which  leads  us  to  believe  that  many  of  the  papers  are  faith 
ful  representations  of  individual  feelings.  Tabitha,  from 
whose  pen  we  have  given  four  papers,  is  a  simple,  unpre 
tending  narrator  of  old  American  scenes  and  customs.  Ella, 
from  whom  we  select  three  papers,  is  one  of  the  imaginative 
spirits  who  dwell  on  high  thoughts  of  the  past,  and  reveries 
of  the  future — one  who  has  been  an  earnest  thinker  as  well 
as  a  reader.  Jemima  prettily  describes  two  little  home- 
scenes.  Susanna,  who  to  our  minds  exhibits  natural  pow 
ers  and  feelings,  that  by  cultivation  might  enable  her  to  be 
come  as  interesting  an  historian  of  the  old  times  of  America 
in  the  days  before  the  Revolution  as  an  Irving  or  a  Cooper, 


Xll  INTRODUCTION. 

furnishes  us  with  two  papers.  The  rest  are  Lisettas,  and 
Almiras,  and  Ethelindas,  and  Annettes,  and  Theresas ;  with 
others  who  are  contented  with  simple  initials.  They  have 
all  afforded  us  much  pleasure.  We  have  read  what  they 
hare  written  with  a  deep  interest.  May  the  love  of  letters 
which  they  enjoy,  and  the  power  of  composition  which  they 
have  attained,  shed  their  charms  over  their  domestic  life, 
when  their  days  of  mill  service  are  ended.  May  their  epis 
tles  to  their  friends  be  as  full  of  truthfulness  and  good  feel 
ing  as  their  contributions  to  "  The  Lowell  Offering."  May 
the  success  of  this  their  remarkable  attempt  at  literary  com 
position  not  lead  them  to  dream  too  much  of  the  proud  dis 
tinctions  of  authorship — uncertain  prizes,  won,  if  won  at  all, 
by  many  a  weary  struggle  and  many  a  bitter  disappoint 
ment.  The  efforts  which  they  have  made  to  acquire  the 
practice  of  writing  have  had  their  own  reward.  They,  have 
united  themselves  as  familiar  friends  with  high  and  gentle 
minds,  who  have  spoken  to  them  in  books  with  love  and  en 
couragement.  In  dwelling  upon  the  thoughts  of  others,  in 
fixing  their  own  thoughts  upon  some  definite  object,  they 
have  lifted  themselves  up  into  a  higher  region  than  is  attain 
ed  by  those,  whatever  be  their  rank,  whose  minds  are  not 
filled  with  images  of  what  is  natural  and  beautiful  and  true. 
They  have  raised  themselves  out  of  the  sphere  of  the  partial 
and  the  temporary  into  the  broad  expanse  of  the  universal 
and  the  eternal.  During  their  twelve  hours  of  daily  labor, 
when  there  were  easy  but  automatic  services  to  perform, 
waiting  upon  a  machine — with  that  slight  degree  of  skill 
which  no  machine  can  ever  attain — for  the  repair  of  th6  acci 
dents  of  its  unvarying  progress,  they  may,  without  a  neglect 
of  their  duty,  have  been  elevating  their  minds  in  the  scale  of 
being  by  cheerful  lookings-out  upon  nature,  by  pleasant  rec 
ollections  of  books,  by  imaginary  converse  with  the  just  and 
wise  who  have  lived  before  them,  by  consoling  reflections 


INTRODUCTION.  XU1 

upon  the  infinite  goodness  and  wisdom  which  regulates  this 
world,  so  unintelligible  without  such  a  dependence.  These 
habits  have  given  them  cheerfulness  and  freedom  amidst 
their  uninterrupted  toils.  We  see  no  repinings  against  their 
twelve  hours'  labor,  for  it  has  had  its  solace.  Even  during 
the  low  wages  of  1842,  which  they  mention  with  sorrow  but 
without  complaint,  the  same  cultivation  goes  on  ;  "  The 
Lowell  Offering  "  is  still  produced.  To  us  of  England  these 
things  ought  to  be  encouraging.  To  the  immense  body  of 
our  factory  operatives  the  example  of  what  the  girls  of  Low 
ell  have  done  should  be  especially  valuable.  It  should  teach 
them  that  their  strength,  as  well  as  their  happiness,  lies  in 
the  cultivation  of  their  minds.  To  the  employers  of  opera 
tives,  and  to  all  of  wealth  and  influence  amongst  us,  this  ex 
ample  ought  to  manifest  that  a  strict  and  diligent  perform 
ance  of  daily  duties,  in  work  prolonged  as  much  as  in  our 
own  factories,  is  no  impediment  to  the  exercise  of  those 
faculties,  and  the  gratification  of  those  tastes,  which, 
whatever  the  world  may  have  thought,  can  no  longer  be 
held  to  be  limited  by  station.  There  is  a  contest  going  on 
amongst  us,  as  it  is  going  on  all  over  the  world,  between  the 
hard  imperious  laws  which  regulate  the  production  of  wealth 
and  the  aspirations  of  benevolence  for  the  increase  of  human 
happiness.  We  do  not  deplore  the  contest ;  for  out  of  it 
must  come  a  gradual  subjection  of  the  iron  necessity  to  the 
holy  influences  of  love  and  charity.  Such  a  period  cannot, 
indeed,  be  rashly  anticipated  by  legislation  against  principles 
which  are  secondary  laws  of  nature;  but  one  thing,  neverthe 
less,  is"  certain — that  such  an  improvement  of  the  operative 
classes,  as  all  good  men, — and  we  sincerely  believe  amongst 
them  the  great  body  of  manufacturing  capitalists, — ardently 
pray  for  and  desire  to  labor  in  their  several  spheres  to  attain , 
will  be  brought  about  in  a  parallel  progression  with  the  ele 
vation  of  the  operatives  themselves  in  mental  cultivation,  and 


XIV  INTRODUCTION. 

consequently  in  moral  excellence.  We  believe  that  this 
great  good  may  be  somewhat  advanced  by  a  knowledge  dif 
fused  in  every  building  throughout  the  land  where  there  is  a 
mule  or  a  loom,  of  what  the  factory  girls  of  Lowell  have 
done  to  exhibit  the  cheering  influences  of  "  MIND  AMONGST 
THE  SPINDLES." 


We  had  written  thus  far  when  we  received  the  following 
most  interesting  and  valuable  letter  from  Miss  Martineau. 
We  have  the  greatest  pleasure  in  printing  this  admirable  ac 
count  of  the  factory  girls  at  Lowell,  from  the  pen  of  one 
who  has  labored  more  diligently  and  successfully  than  any 
writer  of  our  day,  to  elevate  the  condition  of  the  operative 
classes.  To  Miss  Martineau  we  are  deeply  indebted  for  the 
ardent  zeal  with  which  she  has  recommended  the  compila 
tion,  and  for  the  sound  judgment  with  which  she  has  assist 
ed  us  in  arranging  the  details  of  a  plan  which  mainly  owes 
its  origin  to  her  unwearied  solicitude  for  the  good  of  her  fel 
low-creatures. 


Letter  from  Miss  Martineau  to  the  Editor. 

Tynemouth,  May  20,  1844. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — Your  interest  in  this  Lowell  book  can 
scarcely  equal  mine ;  for  I  have  seen  the  factory  girls  in 
their  Lyceum,  and  have  gone  over  the  cotton-mills  at  Wal- 
tham,  and  made  myself  familiar  on  the  spot  with  factory  life 
in  New  England  ;  so  that  in  reading  the  "  Offering,"  I  saw 
again  in  my  memory  the  street  of  houses  built  by  the  earn 
ings  of  the  girls,  the  church  which  is  their  property,  and  the 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

girls  themselves  trooping  to  the  mill,  with  their  healthy 
countenances,  and  their  neat  dress  and  quiet  manners,  re 
sembling  those  of  the  tradesman  class  of  our  country. 

My  visit  to  Lowell  was  merely  for  one  day,  in  company 
with  Mr.  Emerson's  party, — he  (the  pride  and  boast  of 
New  England  as  an  author  and  philosopher)  being  engaged/ 
by  the  Lowell  factory  people  to  lecture  to  them,  in  a  wintejf 
course  of  historical  biography.  Of  course  the  lectures  were 
delivered  in  the  evening,  after  the  mills  were  closed.  The\ 
girls  were  then  working  seventy  hours  a  week,  yet,  as  I  \ 
looked  at  the  large  audience  (and  I  attended  more  to  them 
than  to  the  lecture)  I  saw  no  sign  of  weariness  among  any 
of  them.  There  they  sat,  row  behind  row,  in  their  own  Ly 
ceum — a  large  hall,  wainscoted  with  mahogany,  the  plat- 
form  carpeted,  well  lighted,  provided  with  a  handsome  table, 
desk,  and  seat,  and  adorned  with  portraits  of  a  few  worthies, 
and  as  they  thus  sat  listening  to  their  lecturer,  all  wakeful 
and  interested,  all  well-dressed  and  lady-like,  I  could  not 
but  feel  my  heart  swell  at  the  thought,  of  what  such  a  sight 
would  be  with  us. 

The  difference  is  not  in  rank,  for  these  young  people  were 
all  daughters  of  parents  who  earn  their  bread  with  their  own 
hands.  It  is  not  in  the  amount  of  wages,  however  usual  1 
that  supposition  is,  for  they  were  then  earning  from  one  to 
three  dollars  a- week,  besides  their  food  ;  the  children  one 
dollar  (4s.  3d.),  the  second  rate  workers  two  dollars,  and 
the  best  three  :  the  cost  of  their  dress  and  necessary  com 
forts  being  much  above  what  the  same  class  expend  in  this 
country.  It  is  not  in  the  amount  of  toil ;  for,  as  I  have  said, 
they  worked  seventy  clear  hours  per  week.  The  difference 
was  in  their  superior  culture.  Their  minds  are  kept  fresh, 
and  strong,  and  free  by  knowledge  and  power  of  thought; 
and  this  is  the  reason  why  they  are  not  worn  and  depressed 
under  their  labors.  They  begin  with  z  poorer  chance  for 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

health  than  our  people  ;  for  the  health  of  the  New  England 
women  generally  is  not  good,  owing  to  circumstances  of  cli 
mate  and  other  influences  ;  but  among  the  3800  women  and 
girls  in  the  Lowell  mills  when  I  was  there,  the  average  of 
health  was  not  lower  than  elsewhere  ;  and  the  disease  which 
was  most  mischievous  was  the  same  that  proves  most  fatal 
over  the  whole  country — consumption  ;  while  there  were  no 
complaints  peculiar  to  mill  life. 

At  Waltham,  where  I  saw  the  mills,  and  conversed  with 
the  people,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  the  invigorat 
ing  effects  of  MIND  in  a  life  of  labor.  Twice  the  wages  and 
half  the  toil  would  not  have  made  the  girls  I  saw  happy  and 
healthy,  without  that  cultivation  of  mind  which  afforded 
them  perpetual  support,  entertainment,  and  motive  for  activi 
ty.  They  were  not  highly  educated,  but  they  had  pleasure 
in  books  and  lectures,  in  correspondence  with  home  ;  and 
had  their  minds  so  open  to  fresh  ideas,  as  to  be  drawn  off  from 
thoughts  of  themselves  and  their  own  concerns.  When  at 
work  they  were  amused  with  thinking  over  the  last  book 
they  had  read,  or  with  planning  the  account  they  should 
write  home  of  the  last  Sunday's  sermon,  or  with  singing 
over  to  themselves  the  song  they  meant  to  practise  in  the 
evening  ;  and  when  evening  came,  nothing  was  heard  of 
tired  limbs  and  eagerness  for  bed,  but,  if  it  was  summer, 
they  sallied  out,  the  moment  tea  was  over,  for  a  walk,  and  if 
it  .was  winter,  to  the  lecture-room  or  to  the  ball-room  for  a 
dance,  or  they  got  an  hour's  practice  at  the  piano,  or  wrote 
home,  or  shut  themselves  up  with  a  new  book.  It  \vas  dur 
ing  the  hours  of  work  in  the  mill  that  the  papers  in  the  "Of 
fering  "  were  meditated,  and  it  was  after  work  in  the  even 
ings  that  they  were  penned. 

There  is,  however,  in  the  case  of  these  girls,  a  stronger 
support,  a  more  elastic  spring  of  vigor  and  cheerfulness  than 
even  an  active- and  cultivated  understanding.  The  institu- 


INTRODUCTION.  Xvil 

tion  of  factory  labor  has  brought  ease  of  heart  to  many  ;  and 
to  many  occasion  for  noble  and  generous  deeds.  The  ease 
of  heart  is  given  to  those  who  were  before  suffering  in  silent 
poverty,  from  the  deficiency  of  profitable  employment  for 
women,  which  is  even  greater  in  America  than  with  us.  It 
used  to  be  understood  there  that  all  women  were  maintained 
by  the  men  of  their  families  ;  but  the  young  men  of  New  I 
England  are  apt  to  troop  off  into  the  West,  to  settle  in  new! 
lands,  leaving  sisters  at  home.  Some  few  return  to  fetch  aJ 
wife,  but  the  greater  number  do  not,  and  thus  a  vast  over 
proportion  of  young  women  remains  ;  and  to  a  multitude  of 
these  the  opening  of  factories  was  a  most  welcome  event,  af 
fording  means  of  honorable  maintenance,  in  exchange  for 
pining  poverty  at  home. 

As  for  the  noble  deeds,  it  makes  one's  heart  glow  to  stand 
in  these  mills,  and  hear  of  the  domestic  history  of  some  who 
are  working  before  one's  eyes,  unconscious  of  being  observ 
ed  or  of  being  the  object  of  any  admiration.  If  one  of  the 
sons  of  a  New  England  farmer  shows  a  love  for  books  and 
thought,  the  ambition  of  an  affectionate  sister  is  roused,  and 
she  thinks  of  the  glory  and  honor  to  the  whole  family,  and 
the  blessing  to  him,  if  he  could  have  a  college  education. 
She  ponders  this  till  she  tells  her  parents,  some  day,  of  her 
wish  to  go  to  Lowell,  and  earn  the  means  of  sending  her 
brother  to  college.  The  desire  is  yet  more  urgent  if  the 
brother  has  a  pious  mind,  and  a  wish  to  enter  the  ministry. 
Many  a  clergyman  in  America  has  been  prepared  for  his 
function  by  the  devoted  industry  of  sisters  ;  and  many  a 
scholar  and  professional  man  dates  his  elevation  in  social 
rank  and  usefulness  from  his  sister's,  or  even  some  affection 
ate  aunt's  entrance  upon  mill  life,  for  his  sake.  Many  girls, 
perceiving  anxiety  in  their  fathers'  faces,  on  account  of  the 
farm  being  incumbered,  and  age  coming  on  without  release 
from  the  debt,  have  gone  to  Lowell,  and  wrorked  till  the 


Xviii  INTRODUCTION. 

mortgage  was  paid  off,  and  the  little  family  property  free. 
Such  motives  may  well  lighten  and  sweeten  labor  ;  and  to 
such  girls  labor  is  light  and  sweet. 

Some,  who  have  no  such  calls,  unite  the  surplus  of  their 
earnings  to  build  dwellings  for  their  own  residence,  six, 
eight,  or  twelve  living  together  with  the  widowed  mother  or 
elderly  aunt  of  one  of  them  to  keep  house  for,  and  give 
countenance  to  the  party.  I  saw  a  whole  street  of  houses 
so  built  and  owned,  at  Waltham  ;  pretty  frame  houses,  with 
the  broad  piazza,  and  the  green  Venitian  blinds,  that  give 
such  an  air  of  coolness  and  pleasantness  to  American  village 
and  country  abodes.  There  is  the  large  airy  eating-room, 
with  a  few  prints  hung  up,  the  piano  at  one  end,  and  the 
united  libraries  of  the  girls,  forming  a  good-looking  array  of 
books,  the  rocking  chairs  universal  in  America,  the  stove 
adorned  in  summer  with  flowers,  and  the  long  dining-table 
in  the  middle.  The  chambers  do  not  answer  to  our  English 
ideas  of  comfort.  There  is  a  strange  absence  of  the  wish 
for  privacy  ;  and  more  girls  are  accommodated  in  one  room 
than  we  should  see  any  reason  for  in  such  comfortable  and 
pretty  houses. 

In  the  mills  the  girls  have  quite  the  appearance  of  ladies. 
They  sally  forth  in  the  morning  with  their  umbrellas  in 
threatening  weather,  their  calashes  to  keep  their  hair  neat, 
gowns  of  print  or  gingham,  with  a  perfect  fit,  worked  collars 
or  pelerines,  and  waistbands  of  ribbon.  For  Sundays  and 
social  evenings  they  have  their  silk  gowns,  and  neat  gloves 
and  shoes.  Yet  through  proper  economy, —  the  economy  of 
educated  and  thoughtful  people,  — they  are  able  to  lay  by 
for  such  purposes  as  I  have  mentioned  above.  The  deposits 
in  the  Lowell  Savings'  Bank  were,  in  1834,  upwards  of 
114,000  dollars,  the  number  of  operatives  being  5000,  of 
whom  3800  were  women  and  girls. 

I  thank  you  for  calling  my  attention  back  to  this  subject. 


INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

It  is  one  I  have  pleasure  in  recurring  to.  There  is  nothing 
in  America  which  necessitates  the  prosperity  of  manufactures 
as  of  agriculture, and  there  is  nothing  of  good  in  their  factory 
system  that  may  not  be  emulated  elsewhere  —  equalled 
elsewhere,  when  the  people  employed  are  so  educated  as  to 
have  the  command  of  themselves  and  of  their  lot  in  life, 
which  is  always  and  everywhere  controlled  by  mind,  far 
more  than  by  outward  circumstances. 

I  am  very  truly  yours, 

H.   MARTINEAU. 


MIXD  AMOXGST  THE  SPINDLES. 


ABBY'S  YEAR  IN  LOWELL. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"MR.  ATKINS,  I  say!  Husband,  why  can't  you  speak  1 
Do  you  hear  what  Abby  says?  " 

"  Any  thing  worth  hearing?  "  was  the  responsive  ques 
tion  of  Mr.  Atkins ;  and  he  laid  down  the  New  Hampshire 
Patriot,  and  peered  over  his  spectacles,  with  a  look  which 
seemed  to  say,  that  an  event  so  uncommon  deserved  partic 
ular  attention. 

"  Why,  she  says  that  she  means  to  go  to  Lowell,  and 
work  in  the  factory." 

"  Well,  wife,  let  her  go ;  "  and  Mr.  Atkins  took  up  the 
Patriot  again. 

"  But  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  spare  her  ;  the  spring 
cleaning  is  not  done,  nor  the  soap  made,  nor  the  boys'  sum 
mer  clothes  ;  and  you  say  that  you  intend  to  board  your  own 
'  men-folks  '  and  keep  two  more  cows  than  you  did  last 
year  ;  and  Charley  can  scarcely  go  alone.  I  do  not  see  how 
I  can  get  along  without  her." 

"  But  you  say  she  does  not  assist  you  any  about  the 
house." 

"Well,  husband,  she  might." 

"  Yes,  she  might  do  a  great  many  things  which  she  does 
not  think  of  doing ;  and  as  I  do  not  see  that  she  means  to 
be  useful  here  ;  we  will  let  her  go  to  the  factory." 

"Father,  are  you  in  earnest?  may  I  go  to  Lowell?  " 
said  Abby  ;  and  she  raised  her  bright  black  eyes  to  her 
father's,  with  a  look  of  exquisite  delight. 

"  Yes,  Abby,  if  you  will  promise  me  one  thing,  and  that 
is,  that  you  will  stay  a  whole  year  without  visiting  us, 
excepting  in  case  of  sickness,  and  that  you  will  stay  but  one 
year." 

3 


2s?'.    •  M-fNE    AMONGST    TJiE    SPINDLES. 

"  I  will  promise  anything,  father,  if  you  will  only  let  me 
go  ;  for  I  thought  you  would  say  that  I  had  better  stay  at 
home,  and  pick  rocks,  and  weed  the  garden,  and  drop  corn, 
and  rake  hay ;  and  I  do  not  want  to  do  such  work  any 
longer.  May  I  go  with  the  Slater  girls  next  Tuesday  1  for 
that  is  the  day  they  have  set  for  their  return." 

"  Yes,  Abby,  if  you  will  remember  that  you  are  to  stay  a 
year,  and  only  a  year." 

Abby  retired  to  rest  that  night  with  a  heart  fluttering 
with  pleasure ;  for  ever  since  the  visit  of  the  Slater  girls, 
with  new  silk  dresses,  and  Navarino  bonnets  trimmed  with 
flowers  and  lace  veils,  and  gauze  handkerchiefs,  her  head 
had  been  filled  with  visions  of  fine  clothes  ;  and  she  thought 
if  she  could  only  go  where  she  could  dress  like  them,  she 
would  be  completely  happy.  She  was  naturally  very  fond 
of  dress,  and  often,  while  a  little  girl,  had  she  sat  on  the 
grass  bank  by  the  road-side,  watching  the  stage  which  went 
daily  by  her  father's  retired  dwelling ;  and  when  she  saw 
the  gay  ribbons  and  smart  shawls,  which  passed  like  a 
bright  phantom  before  her  wondering  eyes,  she  had  thought 
that  when  older  she  too  would  have  such  things  ;  and  she 
looked  forward  to  womanhood  as  to  a  state  in  which  the 
chief  pleasure  must  consist  in  wearing  fine  clothes.  But  as 
years  passed  over  her,  she  became  aware  that  this  was  a 
source  from  which  she  could  never  derive  any  enjoyment, 
while  she  remained  at  home,  for  her  father  was  neither  able 
nor  willing  to  gratify  her  in  this  respect,  and  she  had  begun 
to  fear  that  she  must  always  wear  the  same  brown  Cambric 
bonnet,  and  that  the  same  calico  gown  would  always  be  her 
11  go-to-meeting  dress."  And  now  what  a  bright  picture  had 
been  formed  by  her  ardent  and  uncultivated  imagination. — 
Yes,  she  would  go  to  Lowell,  and  earn  all  that  she  possibly 
could,  and  spend  those  earnings  in  beautiful  attire  ;  shje 
would  have  silk  dresses,  —  one  of  grass  green,  and  another 
of  cherry  red,  and  another  upon  the  color  of  which  sh» 
would  decide  when  she  purchased  it  ;  and  she  would  have  a 
new  Navarino  bonnet ;  far  more  beautiful  than  Judith  Sla 
ter's  ;  and  when  at  last  she  fell  asleep,  it  was  to  dream  of 
satin  and  lace,  and  her  glowing  fancy  revelled  all  night  in  a 
vast  and  beautiful  collection  of  milliners'  finery. 

But  very  different  were  the  dreams  of  Abby's  mother ; 
and  when  she  awoke  the  next  morning,  her  first  words  to 


ABBY  S    YEAR    IN    LOWELL.  23 

her  husband  were,  "  Mr.  Atkins,  were  you  serious  last 
night  when  you  told  Abby  that  she  might  go  to  Lowell?  I 
thought  at  first  that  you  were  vexed  because  I  interrupted 
you,  and  said  it  to  stop  the  conversation." 

"  Yes,  wife,  I  was  serious,  and  you  did  not  interrupt  me, 
for  I  had  been  listening  to  all  that  you  and  Abby  were  say 
ing.  She  is  a  wild,  thoughtless  girl,  and  I  hardly  know 
what  it  is  best  to  do  with  her  ;  but  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well 
to  try  an  experiment,  and  let  her  think  and  act  a  little  while 
for  herself.  I  expect  that  she  will  spend  all  her  earnings  in 
fine  clothes,  but  after  she  has  done  so  she  may  see  the  folly 
of  it  ;  at  all  events,  she  will  be  more  likely  to  understand 
the  value  of  money  when  she  has  been  obliged  to  work  for 
it.  After  she  has  had  her  own  way  for  one  year,  she  may 
possibly  be  willing  to  return  home,  and  become  a  little  more 
steady,  and  be  willing  to  devote  her  active  energies  (for  she 
is  a  very  capable  girl)  to  household  duties,  for  hitherto  her 
services  have  been  principally  out  of  doors,  where  she  is 
now  too  old  to  work.  I  am  also  willing  that  she  should  see 
a  little  of  the  world,  and  what  is  going  on  in  it  ;  and  I  hope 
that,  if  she  receives  no  benefit,  she  will  at  least  return  to  us 
uninjured." 

"6,  husband,  I  have  many  fears  for  her,"  was  the  reply  of 
Mrs.  Atkins,  "  she  is  so  very  giddy  and  thoughtless,  and  the 
Slater  girls  are  as  hair-brained  as  herself,  and  will  lead  her 
on  in  all  sorts  of  folly.  I  wish  you  would  tell  her  that  she 
must  stay  at  home." 

"  I  made  a  promise,"  said  Mr.  Atkins,  "  and  I  will  keep 
it ;  and  Abby,  I  trust,  will  keep  hers. 

Abby  flew  round  in  high  spirits  to  make  the  necessary 
preparations  for  her  departure,  and  her  mother  assisted  her 
with  a  heavy  heart. 

CHAPTER    II. 

THE  evening  before  she  left  home  her  father  called  her 
to  him,  and  fixing  upon  her  a  calm,  earnest,  and  almost 
mournful  look,  he  said,  "  Abhy,  do  you  ever  think  V — 
Abby  was  subdued,  and  almost  awed,  by  her  father's  look 
and  manner.  There  was  something  unusual  in  it — 
something  in  his  expression  which  was  unexpected  in  him, 
which  reminded  her  of  her  teacher's  look  at  the  Sabbath 


24  MIND     AMONGST     THE    SPINDLES. 

school,  when  he  was  endeavoring  to  impress  upon  her  mind 
some  serious  trnth.  "  Yes,  father,"  she  at  length  replied, 
"  I  have  thought  a  great  deal  lately  about  going  to  Lowell." 

"  But  I  do  not  believe,  my  child,  that  you  have  had  one 
serious  reflection  upon  the  subject,  and  1  fear  that  I  have 
done  wrong  in  consenting  to  let  you  go  from  home.  If  I 
was  too  poor  to  maintain  you  here,  and  had  no  employment 
about  which  you  could  make  yourself  useful,  I  should  feel 
no  self-reproach,  and  would  let  you  go,  trusting  that  all 
might  yet  be  well ;  but  now  I  have  done  what  I  may  at 
some  future  time  severely  repent  of ;  and,  Abby,  if  you 
do  not  wish  to  make  me  wretched,  you  will  return  to  us  a 
better,  milder,  and  more  thoughtful  girl." 

That  night  Abby  reflected  more  seriously  than  she  had 
ever  done  in  her  life  before.  Her  father's  words,  rendered 
more  impressive  by  the  look  and  tone  with  which  they  were 
delivered,  had  sunk  into  her  heart  as  words  of  his  had  never 
done  before.  She  had  been  surprised  at  his  ready  acqui 
escence  in  her  wishes,  but  it  had  now  a  new  meaning.  She 
feltthat  she  was  about  to  be  abandoned  to  herself,  because 
her  parents  despaired  of  being  able  to  do  anything  for  her  ; 
they  thought  her  too  wild,  reckless,  and  untameable,  to  be 
softened  by  aught  but  the  stern  lessons  of  experience.  I 
will  surprise  them,  said  she  to  herself;  I  will  show  them 
that  I  have  some  reflection  ;  and  after  I  come  home,  my 
father  shall  never  ask  me  if  I  think.  Yes,  I  know  what 
their  fears  are,  and  I  will  let  them  see  that  I  can  take  care 
of  myself,  and  as  good  care  as  they  have  ever  taken  of  me. 
I  know  that  I  have  not  done  as  well  as  I  might  have  done  ; 
but  I  will  begin  now,  and  when  I  return,  they  shall  see  that 
I  am  a  better,  milder,  and  more  thoughtful  girl.  And  the 
money  which  I  intended  to  spend  in  line  dress  shall  be  put 
into  the  bank  ;  I  will  save  it  all,  and  my  father  shall  see 
that  I  can  earn  money,  and  take  care  of  it  too.  O,  how 
different  I  will  be  from  what  they  think  I  am  ;  and  how  very 
glad  it  will  make  my  father  and  mother  to  see  that  I  am  not 
so  very  bad,  after  all. 

New  feelings  and  new  ideas  had  begotten  new  resolutions, 
and  Abby's  dreams  that  night  were  of  smiles  from  her  moth 
er,  and  words  from  her  father,  such  as  she  had  never 
received  nor  deserved. 

When  she  bade  them  farewell  the  next  morning,  she  said 


ABBY'S  YEAR   IN   LOWELL.  25 

nothing  of  the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  her  views 
and  feelings,  for  slu;  lelt  a  slight  degree  of  self-distrust  in 
her  own  firmness  of  purpose. 

Abby's  self-distrust  was  commendable  and  auspicious; 
but  she  had  a  very  prominent  development  in  that  part  of  the 
head  where  phrenologists  locate  the  organ  of  firmness  ;  and 
when  she  had  once  determined  upon  a  tiling,  she  usually 
went  through  with  it.  She  had  now  resolved  to  pursue  a 
course  entirely  different  from  that  which  was  expected  of 
her,  and  as  different  from  the  one  she  had  first  marked  out 
for  herself.  This  was  more  difficult,  on  account  of  her 
strong  propensity  for  dress,  a  love  of  which  was  freely 
gratified  by  her  companions.  But  when  Judith  Slater 
pressed  her  to  purchase  this  beautiful  piece  of  silk,  or  that 
splendid  piece  of  muslin,  her  constant  reply  was,  "  No,  I 
have  determined  not  to  buy  any  such  things,  and  I  will  keep 
my  resolution." 

Before  she  came  to  Lowell,  she  wondered,  in  her  simplici 
ty,  how  people  could  live  where  there  were  so  many  stores, 
and  not  spend  all  their  money  ;  and  it  now  required  all  her 
firmniss  to  resist  being  overcome  by  the  tempting  display  of 
beauties  which  met  her  eye  whenever  she  promenaded  the 
illuminated  streets.  It  was  hard  to  walk  by  the  milliners' 
shops  with  an  unwavering  step  ;  and  when  she  came  to  the 
confectionaries,  she  could  not  help  stopping.  But  she  did 
not  yield  to  the  temptation  ;  she  did  not  spend  her  money  in 
them.  When  she  saw  fine  strawberries,  she  said  to  herself, 
''  I  can  gather  them  in  our  own  pasture  next  year  ;  "  when 
she  looked  upon  the  nice  peaches,  cherries,  and  plums 
which  stood  in  tempting  array  behind  their  crystal  barriers, 
she  said  again,  "  1  will  do  without  them  this  summer  ;  "  and 
when  applas,  pears,  and  nuts  were  oifered  to  her  for  sale, 
she  thought  that  she  would  eat  none  of  them  till  she  went 
home.  But  she  felt  that  the  only  safe  place  for  her  earnings 
was  the  savings'  bank,  and  there  they  were  regularly  de 
posited,  that  it  might  be  out  of  her  power  to  indulge  in 
momentary  whims.  She  gratified  no  feeling  but  a  newly- 
awakened  desire  for  mental  improvement,  and  spent  her 
leisure  hours  in  reading  useful  books. 

Abby's  year  was  one  of  perpetual  self-contest  and  self- 
denial  ;  but  it  was  by  no  means  one  of  unmitigated  misery. 
The  juling  desire  of  years  was  not  to  be  conquered  by  the 


26  MIND     AMONGST    THE     SPINDLES. 

resolution  of  a  moment ;  but  when  the  contest  was  over, 
there  was  for  her  the  triumph  of  victory.  If  the  battle  was 
sometimes  desperate,  there  was  so  much  more  merit  in  being 
conqueror.  One  Sabbath  was  spent  in  tears,  because  Judith 
Slater  did  not  wish  her  to  attend  their  meeting  with  such  a 
dowdy  bonnet ;  and  another  fellow-boarder  thought  her 
gown  must  have  been  made  in  "  the  year  one."  The  color 
mounted  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  lightning  flashed  from  her 
eyes,  when  asked  if  she  had  "just  comedown;"  and  she 
felt  as  though  she  should  be  glad  to  be  away  from  them  all, 
when  she  heard  their  sly  inuendoes  about  "  bush-wackers." 
Still  she  remained  unshaken.  It  is  but  a  year,  said  she  to 
herself,  and  the  time  and  money  that  my  father  thought  I 
should  spend  in  folly,  shall  be  devoted  to  a  better  purpose. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AT  the  close  of  a  pleasant  April  day,  Mr.  Atkins  sat  at 
his  kitchen  fireside,  with  Charley  upon  his  knees.  "Wife," 
said  he  to  Mrs.  Atkins,  who  was  busily  preparing  the  even 
ing  meal,  "  is  it  not  a  year  since  Abby  left  home?  " 

"  Why,  husband,  let  me  think  :  I  always  clean  up  the 
house  thoroughly  just  before  fast-day,  and  I  had  not  done  it 
when  Abby  went  away.  I  remember  speaking  to  her  about 
it,  and  telling  her  that  it  was  wrong  to  leave  me  at  such  a 
busy  time,  and  she  said,  i  Mother,  I  will  be  at  home  to  do  it 
all  next  year.'  Yes,  it  is  a  year,  and  I  should  not  be  sur 
prised  if  she  should  come  this  week." 

"  Perhaps  she  will  not  come  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Atkins, 
with  a  gloomy  look  ;  "  she  has  written  us  but  few  letters, 
and  they  have  been  very  short  and  unsatisfactory.  I  sup 
pose  she  has  sense  enough  to  know  that  no  news  is  better 
than  bad  news,  and  having  nothing  pleasant  to  tell  about 
herself,  she  thinks  she  will  tell  us  nothing  at  all.  But  if  I 
ever  get  her  home  again,  I  will  keep  her  here.  I  assure 
yon,  her  first  year  in  Lowell  shall  also  be  her  last." 

"  Husband,  I  told  you  my  fears,  and  if  you  had  set  up 
your  authority,  Abby  would  have  been  obliged  to  stay  at 
home  ;  but  perhaps  she  is  doing  pretty  well.  You  know 
she  is  not  accustomed  to  writing,  and  that  may  account  for 
the  few  and  short  letters  we  have  received  ;  but  they  have 


ABBY'S  YEAR  IN  LOWELL.  27 

all,  even  the  shortest,  contained  the  assurance  that  she  would 
be  at  home  at  the  close  of  the  year." 

**  Pa,  the  stage  has  stopped  here,"  said  little  Charley, 
and  he  bounded  from  his  father's  knee.  The  next  moment 
the  room  rang  with  the  shout  of  "  Abby  has  come  !  Abby 
has  come  !  "  In  a  few  moments  more,  she  was  in  the 
midst  of  the  joyful  throng.  Her  father  pressed  her  hand  in 
silence,  and  tears  gushed  from  her  mother's  eyes.  Her 
brothers  and  sisters  were  clamorous  with  delight,  all  but  lit 
tle  Charley,  to  whom  Abby  was  a  stranger,  and  who  repell 
ed  with  terror  all  her  overtures  for  a  better  acquaintance. 
Her  parents  gazed  upon  her  with  speechless  pleasure,  for 
they  felt  that  a  change  for  the  better  had  taken  place  in  their 
once  wayward  girl.  Yes,  there  she  stood  before  them,  a 
little  taller  and  a  little  thinner,  and,  when  the  flush  of  emo 
tion  had  faded  away,  perhaps  a  little  paler  ;  but  the  eyes 
were  bright  in  their  joyous  radiance,  and  the  smile  of  health 
and  innocence  was  playing  around  the  rosy  lips.  She  care 
fully  laid  aside  her  new  straw  bonnet,  with  its  plain  trim 
ming  of  light  blue  ribbon,  and  her  dark  merino  dress  showed 
to  the  best  advantage  her  neat  symmetrical  form.  There 
was  more  delicacy  of  personal  appearance  than  when  she 
left  them,  and  also  more  softness  of  manner ;  for  constant 
collision  with  so  many  young  females  had  worn  off  the  little 
asperities  which  had  marked  her  conduct  while  at  home. 

"  Well,  Abby,  how  many  silk  gowns  have  you  got?" 
said  her  father,  as  he  opened  a  large  new  trunk.  "Not  one, 
father,"  said  she;  and  she  fixed  her  dark  eyes  upon  him 
with  an  expression  which  told  all.  "  But  here  are  some  lit 
tle  books  for  the  children,  and  a  new  calico  dress  for  moth 
er  ;  and  here  is  a  nice  black  silk  handkerchief  for  you  to 
wear  around  your  neck  on  Sundays  ;  accept  it,  dear  father, 
for  it  is  your  daughter's  first  gift." 

"  You  had  better  have  bought  me  a  pair  of  spectacles,  for 
I  am  sure  I  cannot  see  anything."  There  were  tears  in  the 
rough  farmer's  eyes,  but  he  tried  to  laugh  and  joke,  that 
they  might  not  be  perceived.  "  But  what  did  you  do  with 
all  your  money?  " 

"  I  thought  I  had  better  leave  it  there,"  said  Abby,  and 
she  placed  her  bank-book  in  her  father's  hand.  Mr.  Atkins 
looked  a  moment,  and  the  forced  smile  faded  away.  The 
surprise  had  been  too  great,  and  tears  fell  thick  and  fast  from 
the  father's  eyes. 


28  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

"It  is  but  a  little,"  said  Abby.  "But  it  was  all  you 
could  save,"  replied  her  father,  "  and  I  am  proud  of  you, 
Abby  ;  yes,  proud  that  I  am  the  father  of  such  a  girl.  It  is 
not  this  paltry  sum  which  pleases  me  so  much,  but  the  pru 
dence,  self-command,  and  real  affection  for  us  which  you 
have  displayed.  But  was  it  not  sometimes  hard  to  resist 
temptation  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,  you  can  never  know  how  hard  ;  but  it  was 
the  thought  of  this  night  which  sustained  me  through  it  all. 
I  knew  how  you  would  smile,  and  what  my  mother  would 
say  and  feel ;  and  though  there  have  been  moments,  yes, 
hours,  that  have  seen  me  wretched  enough,  yet  this  one 
evening  will  repay  for  all.  There  is  but  one  thing  now  to 
mar  my  happiness,  and  that  is  the  thought  that  this  little 
fellow  has  quite  forgotten  me;"  and  she  drew  Charley  to 
her  side.  But  the  new  picture-book  had  already  effected 
wonders,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  was  in  her  lap,  with  his 
arms  around  her  neck,  and  his  mother  could  not  persuade 
him  to  retire  that  night  until  he  hao1  given  "  sister  Abby  "  a 
hundred  kisses. 

"  Father,"  said  Abby,  as  she  arose  to  retire,  when  the 
tall  clock  struck  eleven,  "  may  I  not  sometime  go  back  to 
Lowell?  I  should  like  to  add  a  little  to  the  sum-  in  the 
bank,  and  I  should  be  glad  of  one  silk  gown  !  " 

"  Yes,  Abby,  you  may  do  anything  you  wish.  I  s-hail 
never  again  be  afraid  to  let  you  spend  a  year  in  Lowell." 

LUCINDA. 


THE  FIRST  WEDDING  IN  SALMAGUNDI.'  - 

I  HAVE  often  heard  this  remark,  "  If  their  friends  can'  give 
them  nothing  else,  they  will  surely  give  them  a  wedding." 
As  I  have  nothing  else  to  present  at  this  time,  I  hope  my 
friends  will  not  complain  if  I  give  them  an  account  of  the 
first  wedding  incur  town.  The  ceremony  of  marriage  be 
ing  performed  by  his  Excellency  the  Governor,  it  would  not 
be  amiss  to  introduce  him  first  of  all. 

Let  me  then  introduce  John^Wentworth  (tHe  last  gover 
nor  of  New  Hampshire  while  the  colonies  were  subject  to 
the  crown  of  Great  Britain),  whose  country  seat  was  in 


THE    FIRST    WEDDING    IN    SALMAGUNDI.  29 

Salmagundi.  The  wedding  which  I  am  about  to  describe 
was  celebrated  on  a  romantic  spot,  by  the  side  of  Lake  Win- 
nipiseogee.  All  the  neighbors  within  ten  miles  were  invit 
ed,  and  it  was  understood  that  all  who  came  were  expected 
to  bring  with  them  some  implements  of  husbandry,  such  as 
ploughs,  harrows,  yokes,  bows,  wheelbarrows,  hods,  scythe- 
snaths,  rakes,  goads,  hay-hooks,  bar-pins,  &c.  These  arti 
cles  were  for  a  fair,  the  product  of  which  was  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  the  wedding,  and  also  to  fit  out  the  bride  with 
some  household  furniture.  All  these  implements,  and  a 
thousand  and  one  besides,  being  wanted  on  the  farm  of 
Wentworth,  he  was  to  employ  persons  to  buy  them  for  his 
own  especial  use. 

Johnny  O'Lara,  an  old  man,  who  used  to  chop  wood  at 
my  father's  door,  related  the  particulars  of  the  wedding  one 
evening,  while  I  sat  on  a  block  in  the  chimney-corner  (the 
usual  place  for  the  greatest  rogue  in  the  family) ,  plying  my 
knitting-needles,  and  every  now  and  then,  when  the  eyes  of 
my  step-mother  were  turned  another  way,  playing  slyly 
with  the  cat.  And  once,  when  we  yonkers  went  upon  a 
whortleberry  excursion,  with  O'Lara  for  our  pilot,  he  show 
ed  us  the  spot  where  the  wedding  took  place,  and  described 
it  was  at  the  time.  On  the  right  was  a  grove  of  birch 
es  ;  on  the  left  a  grove  of  bushy  pines,  with  recesses  for  the 
cows  and  sheep  to  retire  from  the  noonday  sun.  The  back 
ground  was  a  forest  of  tall  pines  and  hemlocks,  and  in  front 
were  .the  limpid  waters  of  the  "  Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit." 
These  encircled  about  three  acres  of  level  grass-land,  with 
'  here -and  there  a  scattering  oak.  "Under  yonder  oak," 
said  O'Lara,  "  the  ceremony  was  performed  ;  and  here,  on 
this,  flat  fock,  was  the  rude  oven  constructed,  where  the 
good  wives  baked  the  lamb ;  and  there  is  the  place  where 
crotched  stakes  were  driven  to  support  a  pole,  upon  which 
hung  two  huge  iron  kettles,  in  which  they  boiled  their  peas. 
Arid  on  this  very  ground,"  said  O'Lara,  "  in  days  of  yore, 
the  elfs  and  fairies  used  to  meet,  and,  far  from  mortal  ken, 
have  their  midnight  gambols." 

The  wedding  was  on  a  fine  evening  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  month  of  July,  at  a  time  when  the  moon  was  above  the 
horizon  for  tne  whole  nignt.  The  company  were  all  assem 
bled,  with  the  exception  of  the  Governor  and  his  retinue. 
To  while  away  the  time,  just  as  the  sun  was  sinking  behind 
3 


30  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

the  opposite  mountains,  they  commenced  singing  an  ode  to 
sunset.  They  had  sung, 

"The  sunset  is  calm  on  the  face  of  the  deep, 

And  bright  is  the  last  look  of  Sol  in  the  west ; 
And  broad  do  the  beams  of  his  parting  glance  sweep, 
Like  the  path  that  conducts  to  the  land  of  the  blest/'' 

when  the  blowing  of  a  horn  announced  the  approach  of  the 
Governor,  whose  barge  was  soon  seen  turning  a  point  of 
land.  The  company  gave  a  salute  of  nineteen  guns,  which 
was  returned  from  the  barge,  gun  for  gun.  The  Governor 
tind  retinue  soon  landed,  and  the  fair  was  quickly  over. 
The  company  being  seated  on  rude  benches  prepared  for  the 
occasion,  the  blowing  of  a  horn  announced  that  it  was  time 
for  the  ceremony  to  commence  ;  and,  being  answered  by  a 
\vhistle,  all  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  right,  and  issuing 
irom  the  birchen  grove  were  seen  three  musicians,  with  a 
bagpipe,  life,  and  a  Scotch  fiddle,  upon  which  they  were 
playing  with  more  good  nature  than  skill.  They  were  fol 
lowed  by  the  bridegroom  and  grooms-man,  and  in  the  rear 
were  a  number  of  young  men  in  their  holiday  clothes. 
These  having  taken  their  places,  soft  music  was  heard  from 
the  left ;  and  from  a  recess  in  the  pines,  three  maidens  in 
white,  with  baskets  of  wild  flowers  on  the  left  arm,  came 
forth,  strewing  the  flowers  on  the  ground,  and  singing  a 
song,  of  which  I  remember  only  the  chorus  : 

"  Lead  the  bride  to  Hymen's  bowers, 
Strew  her  path  with  choicest  flowers." 

The  bride  and  bridesmaid  followed,  and  after  them  came 
several  lasses  in  gala  dresses.  These  having  taken  their 
places,  the  father  of  the  bride  arose,  and  taking  his  daugh 
ter's  hand  and  placing  it  in  that  of  Clifford,  gave  them  his 
blessing.  The  Governor  soon  united  them  in  the  bonds  of 
holy  matrimony,  and  as  he  ended  the  ceremony  with  saying, 
"  What  God  hath  joined  let  no  man  put  asunder,"  he  heart 
ily  saluted  the  bride.  Clifford  followed  his  example,  and  af 
ter  him  she  was  saluted  by  every  gentleman  in  the  company. 
As  a  compensation  for  this  "  rifling  of  sweets,"  Clifford  had 
the  privilege  of  kissing  every  lady  present,  and  beginning 


THE    FIRST    WEDDING    IN    SALMAGUNDI.  31 

\vilh  Madame  Went  worth,  he  saluted   them  all,  from  the 
gray-headed  matron,  to  the  infant  in  its  mother's  arms. 

The  cake  and  wine  were  then  passed  round.  Being  a 
present  from  Madame  Wentworth,  they  were  no  doubt  ex 
cellent.  After  this  refreshment,  and  while  the  good  mat 
rons  were  cooking  their  peas,  and  making  other  prepara 
tions,  the  young  folks  spent  the  time  in  playing  "  blind- 
man's-buff,"  and  "  hide  and  go  seek,"  and  in  singing  "Jem 
my  and  Nancy,"  "  Barbara  Allen,"  "  The  Friar  with  Or 
ders  Grey,"  "  The  Lass  of  Richmond  Hill,"  "  Gilderoy," 
and  other  songs  which  they  thought  were  appropriate  to  the 
occasion. 

At  length  the  ringing  of  a  bell  announced  that  dinner  was 
ready.  "What,  dinner  at  that  time  of  night  ?''  perhaps  some 
will  say.  But  let  me  tell  you,  good  friends  (in  Johnny 
CT  Lara's  words),  that  "  the  best  time  for  a  wedding  dinner, 
is  when  it  is  well  cooked,  and  the  guests  are  ready  to  eat 
it."  The  company  were  soon  arranged  around  the  rude  ta 
bles,  which  were  rough  boards,  laid  across  poles  that  were 
supported  by  crotched  stakes  driven  into  the  ground.  But 
it  matters  not  what  the  tables  were,  as  they  were  covered 
with  cloth  white  as  the  driven  snow,  and  well  loaded  with 
plum  puddings,  baked  lamb,  and  green  peas,  with  all  neces 
sary  accompaniments  for  a  well  ordered  dinner,  which  the 
guests  complimented  in  the  best  possible  manner,  that  is,  by 
making  a  hearty  meal. 

Dinner  being  ended,  while  the  matrons  were  putting  all 
things  to  rights,  the  young  people  made  preparation  for  dan 
cing  ;  and  a  joyous  time  they  had.  The  music  and  amuse 
ment  continued  until  the  "  blushing  morn  "  reminded  the 
good  people  that  it  was  lime  to  separate.  The  rising  sun 
had  gilded  the  sides  of  the  opposite  mountains,  which  were 
sending  up  their  exhalations,  before  the  company  were  all 
on  their  way  to  their  respective  homes.  Long  did  they  re 
member  the  first  wedding  in  our  town.  Even  after  the  frost 
of  seventy  winters  had  whitened  the  heads  of  those  who 
were  then  boys,  they  delighted  to  dwell  on  the  merry  scenes 
of  that  joyful  night ;  and  from  that  time  to  the  present,  wed 
dings  have  been  fashionable  in  Salmagundi,  although  they 
are  not  always  celebrated  in  quite  so  romantic  a  manner. 

TABITHA. 


32  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 


"BLESS,  AND  CURSE  NOT." 

THE  Athenians  were  proud  of  their  glory.  Their 
boasted  city  claimed  pre-eminence  in  the  arts  and  sciences  ; 
even  the  savage  bowed  before  the  eloquence  of  their  soul- 
stirring  orators  ;  and  the  bards  of  every  nation  sang  of  the 
glory  of  Athens. 

But  pre-eminent  as  they  were,  they  had  not  learned  to  be 
merciful.  The  pure  precepts  of  kindness  and  love  were  not 
taught  by  their  sages  ;  and  their  noble  orators  forgot  to  in 
culcate  the  humble  precepts  of  forgiveness,  and  the  "  charity 
which  hopeth  all  things."  They  told  of  patriotism,  of  free 
dom,  and  of  that  courage  which  chastises  wrong  or  injury 
with  physical  suffering  ;  but  they  told  not  of  that  nobler 
spirit  which  "renders  good  for  evil,"  and  "  blesses,  but 
curses  not." 

Alcibiades,  one  of  their  own  countrymen,  offended  against 
their  laws,  and  was  condemned  to  expiate  the  offence  with 
his  life.  The  civil  authorities  ordered  his  goods  to  be  con 
fiscated,  that  their  value  might  swell  the  riches  of  the  public 
treasury ;  and  everything  that  pertained  to  him,  in  the  way 
of  citizenship,  was  obliterated  from  the  public  records.  To 
render  his  doom  more  dreary  and  miserable, — to  add  weight 
to  the  fearful  fulness  of  his  sentence, — the  priests  and 
priestesses  were  commanded  to  pronounce  upon  him  their 
curse.  One  of  them,  however,  a  being  gentle  and  good  as 
the  principles  of  mercy  which  dwelt  within  her  heart — 
timid  as  the  sweet  songsters  of  her  own  myrrh  and  orange 
groves,  and  as  fair  as  the  acacia-blosssom  of  her  own  bower 
— rendered  courageous  by  the  all-stimulating  and  powerful 
influence  of  kindness,  dared  alone  to  assert  the  divinity  of 
tier  office,  by  refusing  to  curse  her  unfortunate  fellow-being 
— asserting  that  she  was  "PRIESTESS  TO  BLESS,  AND  NOT 

TO    CURSE."  LlSETTA. 


ANCIENT    POETRY. 


ANCIENT  POETRY. 

I  LOVE  old  poetry,  with  its  obscure  expressions,  its  obso 
lete  words,  its  quaint  measure,  and  rough  rhyme.  I  love  it 
with  all  these,  perhaps  for  these.  It  is  because  it  is  differ 
ent  from  modern  poetry,  and  not  that  I  think  it  better,  that 
it  at  times  affords  me  pleasure.  But  when  one  has  been 
indulging  in  the  perusal  of  the  smooth  and  elegant  produc 
tions  of  later  poets,  there  is  at  least  the  charm  of  variety  in 
turning  to  those  of  ancient  bards.  This  is  pleasant  to  those 
who  love  to  exercise  the  imagination — for  if  we  would  un 
derstand  our  author,  we  must  go  back  into  olden  times  ;  we 
must  look  upon  the  countenances  and  enter  into  the  feelings 
of  a  long-buried  generation  ;  we  must  remember  that  much 
of  what  we  know  was  then  unknown,  and  that  thoughts  and 
sentiments  which  may  have  become  common  to  us,  glowed 
upon  these  pages  in  all  their  primal  beauty.  Much  of  which 
our  writer  may  speak  has  now  been  wholly  lost  :  and  diffi 
cult,  if  not  impossible,  to  be  understood  are  many  of  his  ex 
pressions  and  allusions. 

But  these  difficulties  present  a  "  delightful  task  "  to  those 
who  would  rather  push  on  through  a  tangled  labyrinth,  than 
to  walk  with  ease  in  a  smooth-rolled  path.  Their  self- 
esteem  is  gratified  by  being  able  to  discover  beauty  where 
other  eyes  behold  but  deformity  :  and  a  brilliant  thought  or 
glowing  image  is  rendered  to  them  still  more  beautiful, 
because  it  shines  through  a  veil  impenetrable  to  other. eyes. 
They  are  proud  of  their  ability  to  perceive  this  beauty,  or 
understand  that  oddity,  and  they  care  not  for  the  mental 
labor  which  they  have  been  obliged  to  perform. 

When  I  turn  from  modern  poetry  to  that  of  other  days,  it 
is  like  leaving  bright  flowery  fields  to  enter  a  dark  tangled 
forest.  The  air  is  cooler,  but  damp  and  heavy.  A  sombre 
gloom  reigns  throughout,  occasionally  broken  by  flitting 
sunbeams,  which  force  their  way  through  the  thick  branches 
which  meet  above  me,  and  dance  and  glitter  upon  the  dt-rk 
underwood  below.  They  are  strongly  contrasted  with  the 
deep  shade  around,  and  my  eye  rests  upon  them  with  more 
pleasure  than  it  did  upon  the  broad  flood  of  sunshine  which 
bathes  the  fields  without.  My  searching  eye  at  times 


34  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

discovers  some  lonely  flower,  half  hidden  by  decayed  leaves 
and  withered  jpnoss,  yet  blooming  there  in  undecaying  beauty. 
There  are  briers  and  thistles  and  creeping  vines  around,  but 
I  heedlessly  press  oh,  for  I  must  enjoy  the  fragrance  and 
examine  the  structure  of  these  unobtrusive  plants.  I  enjoy 
all  this  for  a  while,  but  at  length  I  grow  chilled  and 
weary,  and  am  glad  to  leave  the  forest  for  a  less  fatiguing 
resort. 

But  there  is  one  kirtd  of  old.poetry  to  which  these  remarks 
may  not  apply — I  mean  the  POETRY  OF  THE  BIBLE. — 
And  how*  much  is  there  of  this  !  There  are  songs  of  joy 
and  praise,  and  those  of  woe  and  lamentation  ;  there  are 
odes  and  elegies  ;  there  are  prophecies  and  histories  ;  there 
are  descriptions  of  nature  and  narratives  of  persons,  and  all 
written  with  a  fervency  of  feeling  which  embodies  itself  in 
lofty  and  glowing  imagery.  And  what  is  this  but  poetry  '? 
yet  not  that  which  can  be  compared  to  some  dark,  mazy 
forest,  but  rather  like  a  sacred  grove,  such  as  "  were  God's 
first  temples."  There  is  no  gloom  around,  neither  is  there 
bright  sunshine  ;  but  a  calm  and  holy  light  pervades  the 
place.  The  tall  trees  meet  not  above  me,  but  through  their 
lofty  boughs  I  can  look  up  and  see  the  blue  heavens  bending 
their  perfect  dome  above  the  hallowed  spot,  while  now  and 
then  some  fleecy  cloud  sails  slowly  on,  as  though  it  loved  to 
shadow  the  still  loneliness  beneath.  There  are  soft  winds 
murmuring  through  the  high  tree-tops,  and  their  gentle 
sound  is  like  a  voice  from  the  spirit-land.  There  are  deli 
cate  white  flowers  waving  upon  their  slight  stems,  and 
their  sweet  fragrance  is  like  the  breath  of  heaven.  I  feel 
that  I  am  in  God's  temple.  The  Spirit  above  waits  for  the 
sacrifice.  I  can  now  erect  an  altar,  and  every  selfish 
worldly  thought  should  be  laid  thereon,  a  free-will  offering. 
But  when  the  rite  is  over,  and  I  leave  this  consecrated  spot 
for  the  busy  path  of  life,  I  should  strive  to  bear  into  the 
world  a  heart  baptized  in  the  love  of  beauty,  holiness,  and 
truth. 

I  have  spoken  figuratively — perhaps  too  much  so  to  please 
the  pure  and  simple  tastes  of  some — but  He  who  made  my 
soul  and  placed  it  in  the  body  which  it  animates,  implanted 
within  it  a  love  of  the  beautifnl  in  literature,  and  this  love 
was  first  awakened  and  then  cherished  by  the  words  of 
Holy  Writ. 


ANCIENT    POETRY.  35 

I  have,  when  a  child,  read  my  Bible,  from  its  earliest 
book  to  its  latest.  I  have  gone  in  imagination  to  the  plains 
of  Uz,  and  have  there 'beheld  the  pastoral  'prfnce  in  all  his 
pride  and  glory.  I  have  marked  him-,  too,  when  in  th>; 
depth  of  his  sorrow  he  sat  speechless  upon  the  ground  for 
seven  days  and  seven  sights  ;  but  when  he  opened  his 
mouth  and  spake,  I  listened  with  eagerness  to  the  heart  - 
stirring  words  and  startling  imagery  which  poured  forth 
from  his  burning  lips!  But  my  heart  has  thrilled  with  a 
delightful  awe  when  "  the  Lord  answered  Job  out  of  the 
whirlwind,"  and  I  listened  to  words  of  more  simpltcity^than 
uninspired  man  may  ever  conceive. 

I  have  gone,  too,  with  the  beloved  disciple  into  that  lone 
ly  isle  where  he  beheld  those  things  of  which  he  was 
commanded  to  write.  My  imaginationdared  not  conceive  of 
the  glorious  throne,  and  of  Him  who  sat  upon  it  ;  but  I  have 
looked  with  a  throbbing  delight  upon  the  New  Jerusalem 
coming  down  from  heaven  in  her  clear  crystal  light,  "  as  a 
bride  adorned  for  her  husband."  I  have  gazed  upon  the 
golden  city,  flashing  like  "  transparent  glass,"  and  have 
marked  its  pearly  gates  and  walls  of  every  precious  stone. 
In  imagination  have  I  looked  upon  all  this,  till  my  young 
spirit  longed  to  leave  its  earthly  tenement  and  soar  upward 
to  that  brighter  world,  where  there  is  no  need  of  sun  or 
moon,  for  "  the  Lamb  is  the  light  thereof." 

I  have  since  read  my  Bible  for  better  purposes  than  the 
indulgence  of  taste.  There  must  I  go  to  learn  my  duty  to 
God  and  my  neighbor.  There  should  I  look  for  precepts  to 
direct  the  life  that  now  is,  and  for  the  promise  of  that  which 
is  to  come  ;  yet  seldom  do  I  close  that  sacred  volume  with 
out  a  feeling  of  thankfulness,  that  the  truths  of  our  holy 
religion  have  been  so  often  presented  in  forms  which  not 
only  reason  and  conscience  will  approve,  but  also  which  the 
fancy  can  admire  and  the  heart  must  love.  ELLA. 


36  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  DISCONTENT. 

"  I  WILL  not  stay  in  Lowell  any  longer  ;  I  am  determined 
to  give  my  notice  this  very  day,"  said  Ellen  Collins, 
as  the  earliest  bell  was  tolling  to  remind  us  of  the  hour  for 
labor. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Ellen  ?  It  seems  to  me  you 
have  dreamed  out  a  new  idea  !  Where  do  you  think  of 
going?  and  what  for/?  " 

"  1  am  going  home,  where  I  shall  not  be  obliged  to  rise 
so  early  in  the  morning,  nor  be  dragged  about  by  the 
ringing  of  a  bell,  nor  confined  in  a  close  noisy  room  from 
morning  till  night.  I  will  not  stay  here  ;  I  am  determined 
to  go  home  in  a  fortnight." 

Such  was  our  brief  morning's  conversation. 

In  the  evening,  as  1  sat  alone,  reading,  my  companions 
having  gone  out  to  public  lectures  or  social  meetings,  Ellen 
entered.  I  saw  that  she  still  wore  the  same  gloomy  ex 
pression  of  countenance,  which  had  been  manifested  in  the 
morning  ;  and  I  was  disposed  to  remove  from  her  mind  the 
evil  influence,  by  a  plain  common-sense  conversation. 

"And  so,  Ellen,"  said  I,  "  you  think  it  unpleasant  to 
rise  so  early  in  the  morning,  and  be  confined  in  the  noisy 
mill  so  many  hours  during  the  day.  And  I  think  so,  too. 
All  this,  and  much  more,  is  very  annoying,  no  doubt.  But 
we  must  not  forget  that  there  are  advantages,  as  well  as 
disadvantages,  in  this  employment,  as  in  every  other.  If 
we  expect  to  find  all  sunshine  and  flowers  in  any  station  in 
life,  we  shall  most  surely  be  disappointed.  We  are  very 
busily  engaged  during  the  day  ;  but  then  we  have  the  evening 
to  ourselves,  with  no  one  to  dictate  to  or  control  us.  I  have 
frequently  heard  you  say,  that  you  would  not  be  confined  to 
household  duties,  and  that  you  dislike  the  millinery  business 
altogether,  because  you  could  not  have  your  evenings  for 
leisure.  You  know  that  in  Lowell  we  have  schools,  lectures, 
and  meetings  of  every  description,  for  moral  aud  intellectual 
improvement." 

"  All  that  is  very  true,"  replied  Ellen,  "  but  if  we  were 
to  attend  every  public  institution,  and  every  evening  school 
which  offers  itself  for  our  improvement,  we  might  spend 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    DISCONTENT.  37 

every  farthing  of  our  earnings,  and  even  morb.  Then  if 
sickness  should  overtake  us,  what  are  the  probable  conse 
quences?  Here  we  are,  far  from  kindred  and  home  ;  and 
if  we  have  an  empty  purse,  we  shall  be  destitute  of  friends 
also." 

"  I  do  not  think  so,  Ellen.  I  believe  there  is  no  place 
where  there  are  so  many  advantages  within  the  reach  of  the  - 
laboring  class  of  people,  as  exist  here  ;  where  there  is  so 
much  equality,  so  few  aristocratic  distinctions,  and  such 
good  fellowship,  as  may  be  found  in  this  community.  A 
person  has  only  to  be  honest,  industrious,  and  moral,  to 
secure  the  respect  of  the  virtuous  and  good,  though  he  may 
not  be  worth  a  dollar  ;  while  on  the  other  hand,  an  immoral 
person,  though  he  should  possess  wealth,  is  not  respected. J\ 

"  As  to  the  morality  of  the  place,"  returned  Ellen,  "  1 
have  no  fault  to  find.  I  object  to  the  constant  hurry  of 
everything.  We  cannot  have  time  to  eat,  drink,  or  sleep  \ 
we  have  only  thirty  minutes,  or  at  most  three-quarters  of  an  • 
hour,  allowed  us,  to  go  from  our  work,  partake  of  our  food, 
and  return  to  the  noisy  chatter  of  machinery.  Up  before 
day,  at  the  clang  of  the  bell — and  out  of  the  mill  by  the 
clang  of  the  bell — into  the  mill,  and  at  work,  in  obedience  to 
that  ding-dong  of  a  bell — just  as  though  we  were  so  many 
living  machines.  I  will  give  my  notice  to-morrow :  go,  I 
will — I  won't  stay  here  and  be  a  white  slave." 

"  Ellen,"  said  I,  "  do  you  remember  what  is  said  of  the 
bee,  that  it  gathers  honey  even  in  a  poisonous  flower?  May 
we  not,  in  like  manner,  if  our  hearts  are  rightly  attuned, 
find  many  pleasures  connected  with  our  employment  ?  Why 
is  it,  then,  that  you  so  obstinately  look  altogether  on  the 
dark  side  of  a  factory  life  ?  I  think  you  thought  differently 
while  yon  were  at  home,  on  a  visit,  last  summer — for  you 
were  glad  to  come  back  to  the  mill  in  less  than  four  weeks. 
Tell  me,now — why  were  you  so  glad  to  return  to  the  ringing 
of  the  bell,  the  clatter  of  the  machinery,  the  early  rising,  the 
half-hour  dinner,  and  so  on?  " 

I  saw  that  my  discontented  friend  was  not  in  a  humor 
to  give  me  an  answer — and  I  therefore  went  on  with  my 
talk. 

"  You  are  fully  aware,  Ellen,  that  a  country  life  does  not  I 
exclude  people  from  labor — to  say  nothing  of  the  inferior  . 
privileges  of  attending  public  worship — that  people  have 


38  MIND     AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

often  to  go  a  distance  to  meeting  of  any  kind — that  books 
cannot  be  so  easily  obtained  as  they  can  here — that  you 
cannot  always  have  just  such  society  as  you  wish — that 
you" — 

She  interrupted  me,  by  saying,  "  We  have  no  bell,  with 
its  everlasting  ding-dong." 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  ?  "  said  I,  "  whether  you 
shall  be  awakened  by  a  bell,  or  the  noisy  bustle  of  a  farm- 
l house?     For,  you  know,  farmers  are  generally  up  as  early 
'  in  the  morning  as  we  are  obliged  to  rise." 

"  But  then,"  said  Ellen,  "  country  people  have  none 
of  the  clattering  of  machinery  constantly  dinning  in  their 
ears." 

"True,"  I  replied,  "but  they  have  what  is  worse — 
and  that  is,  a  dull,  lifeless  silence  all  around  them.  The 
hens  may  cackle  sometimes,  and  the  geese  gabble,  and  the 
pigs  squeal" • 

Ellen's  hearty  laugh  interrupted  my  description — and 
presently  we  proceeded,  very  pleasantly,  to  compare  a  coun 
try  life  with  a  factory  life  in  Lowell.  Her  scowl  of  discon 
tent  had  departed,  and  she  was  prepared  to  consider  the 
subject  candidly.  We  agreed,  that  since  we  must  work  for 
,a  living,  the  mill,  all  things  considered,  is  the  most  pleasant, 
and  best  calculated  to  promote  our  welfare  ;  that  we  will 
work  diligently  during  the  hours  of  labor  ;  improve  our 
leisure  to  the  best  advantage,  in  the  cultivation  of  the  mind, 
— hoping  thereby  not  only  to  increase  our  own  pleasure, 
but  also  to  add  to  the  happiness  of  those  around  us. 

ALMIRA. 


THE  WHORTLEBERRY  EXCURSION. 

ABOUT  a  dozen  of  us,  lads  and  lasses,  had  promised 
friend  H.  that  on  the  first  lowery  day  we  would  meet  him 
and  his  family  on  the  top  of  Moose  Mountain,  for  the  pur 
pose  of  picking  whortleberries,  and  of  taking  a  view  of  the 
country  around.  We  had  provided  the  customary  comple 
ment  of  baskets,  pails,  dippers,  &c.  ;  and  one  morning, 
which  promised  a  suitable  day  for  our  excursion,  we  piled 


THE  WHORTLEBERRY  EXCURSION.  39 

ourselves  into  a  couple  of  waggons,  and  rode  to  the  foot  of 
the  mountain  and  commenced  climbing  it  on  foot.  A  beaten 
path  and  spotted  trees  were  our  guides.  A  toilsome  way 
we  found  it — some  places  being  so  steep  that  we  were 
obliged  to  hold  by  the  twigs,  to  prevent  us  from  falling. 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  after  we  left  our  horses,  we 
found  ourselves  on  the  whortleberry  ground — some  of  us 
singing,  some  chatting,  and  all  trying  to  see  who  could  pick 
the  most  berries.  Friend  H.  went  from  place  to  place 
among  the  young  people,  and  with  his  social  conversation 
gave  new  life  to  the  party — while  his  chubby  boys  and  rosy 
girls  by  their  nimbleness  plainly  told  that  they  did  not  intend 
that  any  one  should  beat  them  in  picking  berries. 

Towards  noon,  friend  H.  conducted  us  to  a  spring,  where 
we  made  some  lemonade,  having  taken  care  to  bring  plenty 
of  lemons  and  sugar  with  us,  and  also  bread  and  cheese  for 
a  lunch.  Seated  beneath  a  wide-spreading  oak,  we  partook 
of  our  homely  repast ;  and  never  in  princely  hall  were  the 
choicest  viands  eaten  with  a  keener  relish.  After  resting  a 
while,  we  recommenced  picking  berries,  and  in  a  brief  space 
our  pails  and  baskets  were  all  full. 

About  this  time,  the  clouds  cleared  away,  the  sun  shone 
out  in  all  the  splendor  imaginable,  and  bright  and  beautiful 
was  the  prospect.  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  in  a  north 
and  north-easterly  direction,  were  to  be  seen  fields  of  corn 
and  grain,  with  new  mown  grass-land,  and  potato  flats,  farm 
houses,  barns,  and  orchards — together  with  a  suitable  pro 
portion  of  wood-land,  all  beautifully  interspersed  ;  and  a 
number  of  ponds  of  water,  in  different  places,  and  of  differ 
ent  forms  and  sizes — some  of  them  containing  small  islands, 
which  added  to  the  beauty  of  the  scenery.  The  little  village 
at  Wakefield  corner,  which  was  about  three  miles  distant, 
seemed  to  be  almost  under  our  feet ;  and  with  friend  H.'s 
spy-glass,  we  could  see  the  people  at  work  in  their  gardens, 
weeding  vegetables,  picking  cherries,  gathering  flowers,  &c. 
But  not  one  of  our  number  had  the  faculty  that  the  old  lady 
possessed,  who,  in  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  in  looking 
through  a  spy-glass  at  the  French  fleet,  brought  the  French 
men  so  near,  that  she  could  hear  them  chatter  ;  so  we  had 
to  be  content  with  ignorance  of  their  conversation. 

South-westerly  might  he  seen  Cropplc-crown  Mountain  ; 
and  beyond  it,  Merry-meeting  Pond,  where,  I  have  been 


40  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

told,  Elder  Randall,  the  father  of  the  Free-will  Baptist 
denomination,  first  administered  the  ordinance  of  Baptism. 
West,  might  be  seen  Tumble-down-dick  Mountain  ;  and 
north,  the  Ossipee  Mountains  ;  and  far  north,  might  be  seen 
the  White  Mountains  of  New  Hampshire,  whose  snow- 
crowned  summits  seemed  to  reach  the  very  skies. 

The  prospect  in  the  other  directions  was  not  so  grand, 
although  it  was  beautiful — so  I  will  leave  it,  and  take  the 
shortest  route,  wiih  my  companions,  with  the  baskets  and 
pails  of  berries,  to  the  house  of  friend  H.  On  our  way,  we 
stopped  to  view  the  lot  of  rock  maples,  which,  with  some 
little  labor,  afforded  a  sufficient  supply  of  sugar  for  the 
family  of  friend  H.,  and  we  promised  that  in  the  season  of 
sugar-making  the  next  spring,  we  would  make  it  convenient 
to  visit  the  place,  and  witness  the  process  of  making  maple- 
sugar. 

Our  descent  from  the  mountain  was  by  a  different  path — 
our  friends  having  assured  us,  that  although  our  route  would 
be  farther,  we  should  find  it  more  pleasant  ;  and  truly  we 
did — for  the  pathway  was  not  so  rough  as  the  one  in  which 
we  travelled  in  the  morning.  And  besides,  we  had  the 
pleasure  of  walking  over  the  farm  of  the  good  Quaker,  and 
of  hearing  from  his  own  lips  many  interesting  circumstances 
of  his  life. 

The  country,  he  told  us,  was  quite  a  wilderness  when  he 
first  took  up  his  abode  on  the  mountain  ;  and  bears,  he 
said,  were  as  plenty  as  woodchucks,  and  destroyed  much  of 
his  corn.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and  lived  alone  for  a  number 
of  years  after  he  first  engaged  in  clearing  his  land.  His 
habitation  was  between  two  huge  rocks,  at  about  seventy 
rods  from  the  place  where  he  afterwards  built  his  house. — 
He  showed  us  this  ancient  abode  of  his ;  it  was  in  the  midst 
of  an  old  orchard.  It  appeared  as  if  the  rocks  had  been 
originally  one  ;  but  by  some  convulsion  of  nature  it  had  been 
sundered,  midway,  from  top  to  bottom.  The  back  part  of 
this  dwelling  was  a  rock  wall,  in  which  there  was  a  fire 
place  and  an  oven.  The  front  was  built  of  logs,  with  an 
aperture  for  a  door-way  ;  and  the  roof  was  made  of  saplings 
and  bark.  In  this  rude  dwelling,  friend  H.  dressed  his  food, 
and  ate  it  ;  and  here,  on  a  bed  of  straw,  he  spent  his  lonely 
nights.  A  small  window  in  the  rock  wall  admitted  the 
light  by  day ;  and  by  night,  his  solitary  dwelling  was  illu 
minated  with  a  pitch-pine  torch. 


THE    WHORTLEBERRY    EXCURSION.  41 

On  being  interrogated  respecting  the  cause  of  his  living 
alone  so  long  as  he  did,  he  made  answer,  by  giving  us  to 
understand,  that  if  he  was  called  "  the  bear,"  he  was  not 
so  much  of  a  brute  as  to  marry  until  he  could  give  his  wife 
a  comfortable  maintenance  ;  "  and  moreover,  I  was  re 
solved,"  said  he,  "  that  Hannah  should  never  have  the  least 
cause  to  repent  of  the  ready  decision  which  she  made  in  my 
favor."  "Then,"  said  one  of  our  company,  "your  wife 
was  not  afraid  to  trust  herself  with  the  bear?  "  "  She  did 
not  hesitate  in  the  least,"  said  friend  H. ;  "for  when  1 
'  popped  the  question,'  by  saying,  '  Hannah,  will  thee  have 

me?'  she  readily  answered,  '  Yes,  To ;'  she  would 

have  said,  *  Tobias,  I  will ;  '  but  the  words  died  on  her  lips, 
and  her  face,  which  blushed  like  the  rose,  became  deadly 
pale ;  and  she  would  have  fallen  on  the  floor,  had  I  not 
caught  her  in  my  arms.  After  Hannah  got  over  her  faint- 
ness,  I  told  her  that  we  had  better  not  marry,  until  I  was  in 
a  better  way  of  living  ;  to  which  she  also  agreed.  And," 
said  he,  "  before  I  brought  home  my  bird,  I  had  built  yonder 
cage" — pointing  to  his  house  ;  "and  now,  neighbors,  let 
us  hasten  to  it ;  for  Hannah  will  have  her  tea  ready  by  the 
time  we  get  there."  When  we  arrived  at  the  house  we 
found  that  tea  was  ready;  and  the  amiable  Mrs.  H.,  the 
wife  of  the  good  Quaker,  was  waiting  for  us,  with  all  imag 
inable  patience. 

The  room  in  which  we  took  tea  was  remarkably  neat. 
The  white  floor  was  nicely  sanded,  and  the  fire-place  filled 
with  pine-tops  and  rose-bushes ;  and  vases  of  roses  were 
standing  on  the  mantel-piece.  The  table  was  covered  with 
a  cloth  of  snowy  whiteness,  and  loaded  with  delicacies  ;  and 
here  and  there  stood  a  little  China  vase,  filled  with  white 
and  damask  roses. 

>*  So-ho!  "  said  the  saucy  Henry  L.,  upon  entering  the 
room  ;  I  thought  that  you  Quakers  were  averse  to  every 
species  of  decoration  ;  but  see  !  here  is  a  whole  flower- 
garden  !  "  Friend  H.  smiled  and  said,  "  the  rose  is  a 
favorite  with  Hannah  ;  and  then  it  is  like  her,  with  one  ex 
ception."  "And  what  is  that  exception  ?  "  said  Henry. — 
"  Oh,"  said  our  friend,  "  Hannah  has  no  thorns  to  wound." 
Mrs.  H.'s  heightened  color  and  smile  plainly  told  us,  that 
praise  from  her  husband  was  "  music  to  her  ear."  After 
tea,  we  had  the  pleasure  of  promenading  through  the  house  ; 


42  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

and  Mrs.  H.  showed  us  many  articles  of  domestic  manufac 
ture,  being  the  work  of  her  own  and  her  daughters'  hands. 
The  articles  consisted  of  sheets,  pillow-cases,  bed-quilts, 
coverlets  of  various  colors,  and  woven  in  different  patterns, — 
such  as  chariot  wheels,  rosc-of-sharon,  ladies'  delight, 
federal  constitution — and  other  patterns,  the  names  of  which 
I  have  forgotten.  The  white  bed-spreads  and  the  table- 
covers,  which  were  inspected  by  us,  were  equal,  if  not  supe 
rior,  to  those  of  English  manufacture ;  in  short,  all  that  we 
saw  proclaimed  that  order  and  industry  had  an  abiding  place 
in  the  house  of  friend  H. 

Mrs.  H.  and  myself  seated  ourselves  by  a  window  which 
overlooked  a  young  and  thrifty  orchard.  A  flock  of  sheep 
were  grazing  among  the  trees,  and  their  lambs  were  gam 
bolling  from  place  to  place.  "  This  orchard  is  more  beauti 
ful  than  your  other,"  said  I  ;  "  but  I  do  not  suppose  it  con 
tains  anything  so  dear  to  the  memory  of  friend  H.  as  his  old 
habitation."  She  pointed  to  a  knoll,  where  was  a  small 
enclosure,  and  which  I  had  not  before  observed.  "  There," 
said  she,  "  is  a  spot  more  dear  to  Tobias  ;  for  there  sleep 
our  children."  "  Your  cup  has  then  been  mingled  with  sor 
row  ?"  said  I.  "But,"  replied  she,  ,,  we  do  not  sorrow- 
without  hope  ;  for  their  departure  was  calm  as  the  setting  of 
yonder  sun,  which  is  just  sinking  from  sight  ;  and  we  trust 
that  we  shall  meet  them  in  a  fairer  world,  never  to  part." 
A  tear  trickled  down  the  cheek  of  Mrs.  H.,  but  she  instantly 
wiped  it  away,  and  changed  the  conversation.  Friend  H. 
came  and  took  a  seat  beside  us,  and  joined  in  the  conver 
sation,  which,  with  his  assistance,  became  animated  and 
amusing. 

Here,  thought  I,  dwell  a  couple,  happily  united.  Friend 
H.,  though  rough  in  his  exterior,  nevertheless  possesses  a 
kindly  affectionate  heart ;  and  he  has  a  wife  whose  price 
is  above  rubies. 

The  saucy  Henry  soon  came  to  the  door,  and  bawled  out, 
"The  stage  is  ready."  We  obeyed  the  summons,  and 
found  that  Henry  and  friend  H.'s  son  had  been  for  our 
vehicles.  We  were  again  piled  into  the  waggons — pails, 
baskets,  whortleberries,  and  all ;  and  with  many  hearty 
shakes  of  the  hand,  and  many  kind  farewells,  we  bade  adieu 
to  the  family  of  friend  II. ,  but  not  without  renewing  the 
promise,  that,  in  the  next  sugar-making  season,  we  would 
revisit  Moose  Mountain.  JEMIMA. 


THE    WESTERN    ANTIQUITIES.  43 


THE  WESTERN  ANTIQUITIES. 

IN  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  and  the  more  southern 
parts  of  North  America,  are  found  antique  curiosities  and 
works  of  art,  bearing  the  impress  of  cultivated  intelligence. 
But  of  the  race,  or  people,  who  executed  them,  time  has 
left  no  vestige  of  their  existence,  save  these  monuments  of 
their  skill  and  knowledge.  Not  even  a  tradition  whispers 
its  guess-work,  who  they  might  be.  We  only  know  they 
were. 

What  proof  and  evidence  do  we  gather  from  their  re 
mains,  which  have  withstood  the  test  of  time,  of  their  origin 
and  probable  era  of  their  existence  ?  That  they  existed  cen 
turies  ago,  is  evident  from  the  size  which  forest  trees  have 
attained,  which  grow  upon  the  mounds  and  fortifications  dis 
covered.  That  they  were  civilized  and  understood  the  arts, 
is  apparent  from  the  manner  of  laying  out  and  erecting  their 
fortifications,  and  from  various  utensils  of  gold,  copper,  and 
iron  which  have  occasionally  been  found  in  digging  below 
the  earth's  surface.  If  I  mistake  not,  I  believe  even  glass 
has  been  found,  which,  if  so,  shows  them  acquainted  with 
chemical  discoveries,  which  are  supposed  to  have  been  un 
known  until  a  period  much  later  than  the  probable  time  of 
their  existence.  That  they  were  not  the  ancestors  of  the 
race  which  inhabited  this  country  at  the  time  of  its  discovery 
by  Columbus,  appears  conclusive  from  the  total  ignorance  of 
the  Indian  tribes  of  all  knowledge  of  arts  and  civilization, 
and  the  non-existence  of  any  tradition  of  their  once  proud 
sway.  That  they  were  a  mighty  people  is  evident  from  the 
extent  of  territory  where  these  antiquities  are  scattered. 
The  banks  of  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  tell  they  onc«>.  lived  ; 
and  even  to  the  shore  where  the  vast  Pacific  heaves  its 
waves,  there  are  traces  of  their  existence.  Who  were 
they  ?  In  what  period  of  time  did  they  exist  ? 

In  a  cave  in  one  of  the  Western  States,  there  is  carved 
upon  the  walls  a  group  of  people,  apparently  in  the  act  of 
devotion  ;  and  a  rising  sun  is  sculptured  above  them.  From 
this  we  should  infer  that  they  were  Pagans,  worshipping 
the  sun  and  the  fabulous  gods.  But  what  most  strikingly 
arrests  the  antiquarian's  observation,  and  causes  him  to  re- 


44  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

peat  the  inquiry,  "  who  were  they?  "  is  the  habiliments  of 
the  group.  One  part  of  their  hahit  is  of  the  Grecian  cos 
tume,  and  the  remainder  is  of  the  Phoenicians.  Were  they 
a  colony  from  Greece?  Did  they  come  from  that  land  in 
the  days  of  its  proud  glory,  bringing  with  them  a  knowledge 
of  arts,  science,  and  philosophy  1  Did  they,  too,  seek  a 
home  across  the  western  waters,  because  they  loved  liberty 
in  a  strange  land  better  than  they  loved  slavery  at  home  ? 
Or  what  may  be  as  probable,  were  they  the  descendants  of 
some  band  who  managed  to  escape  the  destruction  of 
ill-fated  Troy? — the  descendants  of  a  people  who  had  called 
Greece  a  mother-country,  but  were  sacrificed  to  her  vindic 
tive  ire,  because  they  were  prouder  to  be  Trojans  than  the 
descendants  of  Grecians  ?  Ay,  who  were  they  ?  Might 
not  America  have  had  its  Hector,  its  Paris,  and  Helen?  its 
maidens  who  prayed,  and  its  sons  who  fought?  All  this 
might  have  been.  But  their  historians  and  their  poets  alike 
have  perished.  They  have  been;  but  the  history  of  their 
existence,  their  origin,  and  their  destruction,  all,  all  are  hid 
den  by  the  dark  chaos  of  oblivion.  Imagination  alone,  from 
inanimate  land-marks,  voiceless  walls,  and  soulless  bodies, 
must  weave  the  record  which  shall  tell  of  their  lives,  their 
aims,  origin,  and  final  extinction. 

Recently,  report  says,  in  Mexico  there  have  been  discov 
ered  several  mummies,  embalmed  after  the  manner  of  the 
ancient  Egyptians.  If  true,  it  carries  the  origin  of  this  fa 
ted  people  still  farther  back ;  and  we  might  claim  them  to 
be  contemporaries  with  Moses  and  Joshua.  Still,  if  I  form 
my  conclusions  correctly  from  what  descriptions  I  have  pe 
rused  of  these  Western  relics  of  the  past,  I  should  decide 
that  they  corresponded  better  with  the  ancient  Grecians, 
Phoenicians,  or  Trojans,  than  with  the  Egyptians.  I  repeat, 
I  may  be  incorrect  in  my  premises  and  deductions,  but  as 
imagination  is  their  historian,  it  pleases  me  better  to  fill  a 
world  with  heroes  and  beauties  of  Homer's  delineations, 
than  with  those  of  "  Pharaoh  and  his  host."  LISETTE. 


THE    FIG-TREE.  45 


THE  FIG-TREE. 

IT  was  a  cold  winter's  evening.  The  snow  had  fallen 
lightly,  and  each  tree  and  shrub  was  bending  beneath  its 
glittering  burden.  Here  and  there  was  one,  with  the  moon 
beams  gleaming  brightly  upon  it,  until  it  seemed,  with  its 
many  branches,  touched  by  the  ice-spirit,  or  some  fairy-like 
creation,  in  its  loveliness  and  beauty.  Every  thing  was 
hushed  in  Dridonville. 

Situated  at  a  little  distance,  was  a  large  white  house, 
surrounded  with  elm-trees,  in  the  rear  of  which,  upon  an  em 
inence,  stood  a  summer-house ;  and  in  the  warm  season 
might  have  been  seen  many  a  gay  lady  reclining  beneath  its 
vine-covered  roof.  No  pains  had  been  spared  to  make  the 
situation  desirable.  It  was  the  summer  residence  of  Cap 
tain  Wilson.  But  it  was  now  mid- winter,  and  yet  he  lin 
gered  in  the  country.  Many  were  the  questions  addressed 
by  the  villagers  to  the  old  gardener,  who  had  grown  grey  in 
the  captain's  service,  as  to  the  cause  of  the  long  delay  ;  but 
he  could  not,  or  would  not,  answer  their  inquiries. 

The  shutters  were  closed,  the  fire  burning  cheerfully,  and 
the  astral  lamp  throwing  its  soft  mellow  light  upon  the  crim 
son  drapery  and  rich  furniture  of  one  of  the  parlors.  In  a 
large  easy  chair  was  seated  a  gentleman,  who  was  between 
fifty  and  sixty  years  of  age.  He  was  in  deep  and  anxious 
thought ;  and  ever  and  anon  his  lip  curled,  as  if  some  bitter 
feeling  was  in  his  heart.  Standing  near  him  was  a  young 
man.  His  brow  was  open  and  serene  ;  his  forehead  high 
and  expansive  ;  and  his  eyes  beamed  with  an  expression  of 
benevolence  and  mildness.  His  lips  were  firmly  compress 
ed,  denoting  energy  and  decision  of  character. 

"  You  may  be  seated,"  said  Capt.  Wilson,  for  it  was  he 
who  occupied  the  large  chair,  the  young  man  being  his  only 
son.  "  You  may  be  seated,  Augustus,"  and  he  cast  upon 
him  a  look  of  mingled  pride  and  scorn.  The  young  man 
bowed  profoundly,  and  took  a  seat  opposite  his  father. 
There  was  a  long  pause,  and  the  father  was  first  to  break 
silence.  "  So  you  intend  to  marry  a  beggar,  and  suffer  the 
consequences.  But  do  you  think  your  love  will  stand  the 
test  of  poverty,  and  the  sneer  of  the  world  ?  for  I  repeat,  that 


46  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

not  one  farthing-  of  my  money  shall  you  receive,  unless  jou 
comply  with  the  promise  which  I  long  since  made  to  my  old 
friend,  that  our  families  should  be  united.  She  will  inherit 
his  vast  possessions,  as  there  is  no  other  heir.  True,  she  is 
a  few  years  your  senior;  but  that  is  of  no  importance. 
Your  mother  is  older  than  I  am.  But  I  have  told  you  all 
this  before.  Consider  well  ere  you  choose  between  wealth 
and  poverty." 

"  Would  that  I  could  conscientiously  comply  with  your 
request,"  replied  Augustus,  "  but  I  have  promised  to  be 
protector  and  friend  to  Emuy  Summerville.  She  is  not  rich 
in  this  world's  goods  ;  but  she  has  what  is  far  preferable — 
a  contented  mind ;  and  you  will  allow  that,  in  point  of  edu 
cation,  she  will  compare  even  with  Miss  Clarkson."  In  a 
firm  voice  he  continued,  "  J  have  made  my  choice,  I  shall 
marry  Emily ;"  and  he  was  about  to  proceed,  but  his  father 
stamped  his  foot,  and  commanded  him  to  quit  his  presence. 
He  left  the  house,  and  as  he  walked  rapidly  towards  Mr. 
Grant's,  the  uncle  of  Miss  Summerville,  he  thought  how  un 
stable  were  all  earthly  possessions,  "  and  why,"  he  exclaim 
ed,  "  why  should  I  make  myself  miserable  for  a  little  paltry 
gold?  It  may  wound  my  pride  at  first  to  meet  my  gay  asso 
ciates  ;  but  that  will  soon  pass  away,  and  my  father  will 
see  that  I  can  provide  for  my  own  wants." 

Emily  Summerville  was  the  daughter  of  a  British  officer, 
who  for  many  years  resided  in  the  pleasant  village  of  Dri- 
donville.  He  was  much  beloved  by  the  good  people  for  his 
activity  and  benevolence.  He  built  the  cottage  occupied  by 
Mr.  Grant.  On  account  of  its  singular  construction,  it  bore 
the  name  of  the  "  English  cottage."  After  his  death  it 
was  sold,  and  Mr.  Grant  became  the  purchaser.  There  Em 
ily  had  spent  her  childhood.  On  the  evening  before  alluded 
to,  she  was  in  their  little  parlor,  one  corner  of  which  was  oc 
cupied  by  a  large  fig-tree.  On  a  stand  were  geraniums, 
rose-bushes,  the  African  lily,  and  many  other  plants,  At  a 
small  table  sat  Emily,  busily  engaged  with  her  needle,  when 
the  old  servant  announced  Mr.  Wilson.  "  Oh,  Augustus, 
how  glad  I  am  you  are  come  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
sprung  from  her  seat  to  meet  him  ;  "  but  you  look  sad  and 
weary,"  she  added,  as  she  seated  herself  by  his  side,  and 
gazed  inquiringly  into  his  face,  the  mirror  of  his  heart. 
"  What  has  happened?  you  look  perplexed." 


THE    FIG-TREE.  47 

"  Nothing  more  than  I  have  expected  for  a  long  time," 
was  the  reply  ;  and  it  was  with  heart-felt  satisfaction  that 
In-  Lr:i'/.ed  on  the  fair  creature  by  his  side,  and  thought  she 
would  be  a  star  to  guide  him  in  the  way  of  virtue.  He  told 
her  all.  And  then  he  explained  to  her  the  path  he  had 
marked  out  for  himself.  "  I  must  leave  you  for  a  time,  and 
engage  in  the  noise  and  excitement  of  my  profession.  It 
will  not  be  long,  if  I  am  successful.  I  must  claim  one  prom 
ise  from  you,  that  is,  that  you  will  write  often,  for  that  will  be 
the  only  pleasure  I  shall  have  to  cheer  me  in  my  absence." 

She  did  promise  ;  and  when  they  separated  at  a  late 
hour,  they  dreamed  not  that  it  was  their  last  meeting  on 
earth. 


"  Oh,  uncle,"  said  Emily,  as  they  entered  the  parlor  to 
gether  one  morning,  "  do  look  at  my  fig-tree;  how  beauti 
ful  it  is.  If  it  continues  to  grow  as  fast  as  it  has  done,  I  can 
soon  sit  under  its  branches."  "  It  is  really  pretty,"  replied 
her  uncle;  and  he  continued,  laughing  and  patting  her 
cheek,  "  you  must  cherish  it  with  great  care,  as  it  was  a 

present  from now  don't  blush  ;  1  do  not  intend  to  speak 

his  name,  but  was  merely  about  to  observe,  that  it  might  be 
now  as  in  olden  times,  that  as  he  prospers,  the  tree  will 
flourish  ;  if  he  is  sick,  or  in  trouble,  it  will  decay." 

44  If  such  are  your  sentiments,"  said  Emily,  "  you  will 
acknowledge  that  thus  far  his  path  has  been  strewed  with 
flowers." 

Many  months  passed  away,  and  there  was  indeed  a 
change.  The  tree  that  had  before  looked  so  green,  had 
gradually  decayed,  until  nothing  was  left  but  the  dry  branch 
es.  But  she  was  not  superstitious:  "It. might  be,"  she 
said,  "  that  she  had  killed  it  with  kindness."  Her  uncle 
never  alluded  to  the  remark  he  had  formerly  made  ;  but 
Emily  often  thought  there  might  be  some  truth  in  it.  She 
had  received  but  one  letter  from  Augustus,  though  she  had 
written  many. 

Summer  had  passed,  and  autumn  was  losing  itself  in  win 
ter.  Augustus  Wilson  was  alone  in  the  solitude  of  his 
chamber. — There  was  a  hectic  flush  upon  his  cheek,  and  the 
low  hollow  cough  told  that  consumption  was  busy.  Was 
that  the  talented  Augustus  Wilson  !  he  whose  thrilling  elo 
quence  had  sounded  far  and  wide  ?  His  eyes  were  riveted 


48  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

upon  a  withered  rose.  It  was  given  him  by  Emily,  on  the 
eve  of  his  departure,  with  these  words,  "  Such  as  I  am,  re 
ceive  me.  Would  I  were  of  more  worth,  for  your  sake." 

"No,"  he  musingly  said  ;  "  it  is  not  possible  she  has  for 
gotten  me.  I  will  not,  cannot  believe  it."  He  arose,  and 
walked  the  room  with  hurried  steps,  and  a  smile  passed 
over  his  face,  as  he  held  communion  with  the  bright  images 
of  the  past.  He  threw  himself  upon  his  couch,  but  sleep 
was  a  stranger  to  his  weary  frame. 

Three  weeks  quickly  passed,  and  Augustus  Wilson  lay 
upon  his  death-bed.  Calm  and  sweet  was  his  slumber,  as 
the  spirit  took  its  flight  to  the  better  land.  And  O,  it  was  a 
sad  thing  to  see  that  father,  with  the  frost  of  many  winters 
upon  his  head,  bending  low  over  his  son,  entreating  him  to 
speak  once  more  ;  but  all  wras  silent.  He  was  not  there  ; 
nought  remained  but  the  beautiful  casket ;  the  jewel  which 
had  adorned  it  was  gone.  And  deep  was  the  grief  of  the 
mother  ;  but,  unlike  her  husband,  she  felt  she  had  done  all 
she  could  to  brighten  her  son's  pathway  in  life.  She  knew 
not  to  what  extent  Capt.  W.  had  been  guilty. 

Augustus  was  buried  in  all  the  pomp  and  splendor  that 
wealth  could  command.  The  wretched  father  thought  in 
this  way  to  blind  the  eyes  of  the  world.  But  he  could  not 
deceive  himself.  It  was  but  a  short  time  before  he  was  laid 
beside  his  son  at  Mount  Auburn.  Several  letters  were 
found  among  his  papers,  but  they  had  not  been  opened. 
Probably  he  thought  that  by  detaining  them,  he  should  in 
duce  his  son  to  marry  the  rich  Miss  Clarkson,  instead  of  the 
poor  Emily  Summerville. 


Emily  Summerville  firmly  stood  amidst'the  desolation  that 
had  withered  all  her  bright  hopes  in  life.  She  had  followed 
her  almost  idolized  uncle  to  the  grave  ;  she  had  seen  the 
cottage,  and  all  the  familiar  objects  connected  with  her  ear 
liest  recollections,  pass  into  the  hands  of  strangers ;  but 
there  was  not  a  sigh,  nor  a  quiver  of  the  lip,  to  tell  of  the 
anguish  within.  She  knew  not  that  Augustus  Wilson  had 
entered  the  spirit-land,  until  she  saw  the  record  of  his  death 
in  a  Boston  paper.  "  O,  if  he  had  only  sent  me  one  word,'' 
she  said  ;  "  even  if  it  had  been  to  tell  me  that  I  was  remem 
bered  no  more,  it  would  have  been  preferable  to  this." 


VILLAGE    PASTORS.  49 

The  light  which  had  shone  so  brightly  on  her  pathway  was 
withdrawn,  and  the  darkness  of  night  closed  around  her. 

Long  and  fearful  was  the  struggle  between  life  and  death; 
but  when  she  arose  from  that  sick  bed,  it  was  with  a  chas 
tened  spirit.  "  I  am  young,"  she  thought,  "  and  I  may  yet 
do  much  good."  And  when  she  again  mingled  in  society, 
it  was  with  a  peace  that  the  world  could  neither  give  nor 
take  away. 

/  She  bade  adieu  to  her  native  village,  and  has  taken  up  her 
abode  in  Lowell.  She  is  one  of  the  class  called  "  factory 
girls."  She  recently  received  the  letters  intercepted  by 
Capt.  Wilson,  and  the  melancholy  pleasure  of  perusing 
them  is  hallowed  by  the  remembrance  of  him  who  is  "gone, 
but  not  lost."  IONE. 


VILLAGE  PASTORS. 

THE  old  village  pastor  of  New  England  was  "  a  man  hav 
ing  authority."  His  deacons  were  under  him,  and  not,  as  is 
now  often  the  case,  his  tyrannical  rulers  ;  and  whenever  his 
parishioners  met  him,  they  doffed  their  hats,  and  said  "Your 
Reverence."  Whatever  passed  his  lips  was  both  law  and 
gospel ;  and  when  too  old  and  infirm  to  minister  to  his 
charge,  he  was  not  turned  away,  like  an  old  worn-out 
beast,  to  die  of  hunger,  or  gather  up,  with  failing  strength, 
the  coarse  bit  which  might  eke  out  a  little  longer  his  remain 
ing  days;  but  he  was  still  treated  with  all  the  deference,  and 
supported  with  all  the  munificence  which  was  believed  due 
to  him  whom  they  regarded  as  "God's  vicegerent  upon 
earth."  He  deemed  himself,  and  was  considered  by  his 
parishioners,  if  not  infallible,  yet  something  approaching  it. 
Those  were  indeed  the  days  of  glory  for  New  England  cler 
gymen. 

Perhaps  I  am  wrong.  The  present  pastor  of  New  Eng 
land,  with  his  more  humble  mien  and  conciliatory  tone,  hi* 
closer  application  and  untiring  activity,  may  be,  in  a  wider 
sphere,  as  truly  glorious  an  object  of  contemplation.  Many 


50  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

are  the  toils,  plans  and  enterprises  entrusted  to  him,  which 
in  former  days  were  not  permitted  to  interfere  with  the 
duties  exclusively  appertaining  to  the  holy  vocation  ;  yet 
with  added  lahors,  the  modern  pastor  receives  neither  added 
honors,  nor  added  remuneration.  Perhaps  it  is  well — nay, 
perhaps  it  is  better ;  but  I  am  confident  that  if  the  old  pastor 
could  return,  and  take  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  situations  of 
his  successors,  he  would  exclaim,  "  How  has  the  glory  de 
parted  from  Israel,  and  how  have  they  cast  down  the  sons  of 
Levi!" 

I  have  been  led  to  these  reflections  by  a  contemplation  of 
the  characters  of  the  first  three  occupants  of  the  pulpit  in  my 
native  village. 

Our  old  pastor  was  settled,  as  all  then  were,  for  life.  I 
can  remember  him  but  in  his  declining  years,  yet  even  then 
was  he  a  hale  and  vigorous  old  man.  Honored  and  beloved 
by  all  his  flock,  his  days  passed  undisturbed  by  ihe  storms  and 
tempests  which  have  since  then  so  often  darkened  and  disturb 
ed  the  theological  world.  The  opinions  and  creeds,  handed 
down  by  his  Pilgrim  Fathers,  he  carefully  cherished,  neither 
adding  thereto,  nor  taking  therefrom  ;  and  he  indoctrinated 
the  young  in  all  the  mysteries  of  the  true  faith,  with  an  un- 
doubting  belief  in  its  infallibility.  There  was  much  of  the 
patriarch  in  his  look  and  manner ;  and  this  was  heightened 
by  the  nature  of  his  avocations,  in  which  pastoral  labors 
were  mingled  with  clerical  duties.  No  farm  was  in  better 
order  than  that  of  the  parsonage  ;  no  fields  looked  more 
thriving,  and  no  flocks  were  more  profitable  than  were  those 
of  the  good  clergyman.  Indeed  he  sometimes  almost  forgot 
his  spiritual  field,  in  the  culture  of  that  which  was  more 
earthly. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  the  minister  was  very  busily 
engaged  in  haymaking.  His  good  wife  had  observed  that 
during  the  week  he  had  been  unusually  engrossed  in  tem 
poral  affairs,  and  feared  for  the  well-being  of  his  flock,  as 
she  saw  that  he  could  not  break  the  earthly  spell,  even  upon 
this  last  day  of  the  week.  She  looked,  and  looked  in  vain 
for  his  return  ;  until,  finding  him  wholly  lost  to  a  sense  of 
his  higher  duties,  she  deemed  it  her  duty  to  remind  him  of 
them.  So  away  she  went  to  the  haying  field,  and  when  she 
was  in  si^ht  of  the  reverend  haymaker,  she  screamed  out, 
•"  Mr.  W..  Mr.  W." 


VILLAGE    PASTORS.  51 

"  What,  my  dear?  "  shouted  Mr.  W.  in  return. 

"  Do  you  intend  to  feed  your  people  with  hay  to-mor 
row  ?  " 

This  was  a  poser — and  Mr.  W.  dropped  his  rake  ;  and, 
repairing  to  his  study,  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  in  the  pre 
paration  of  food  more  meet  for  those  who  looked  so  trust 
fully  to  him  for  the  bread  of  life. 

His  faithful  companion  was  taken  from  him,  and  those 
who  knew  of  his  strong  and  refined  attachment  to  her,  said 
truly,  when  they  prophecied,  that  he  would  never  marry 
again. 

She  left  one  son — their  only  child — a  boy  of  noble  feelings 
and  superior  intellect  ;  and  his  father  carefully  educated 
him  with  a  fond  wish  that  he  would  one  day  succeed  him  in 
the  sacred  office  of  a  minister  of  God.  He  hoped  indeed, 
that  he  might  even  fill  the  very  pulpit  which  he  must  at 
some  time  vacate  ;  and  he  prayed  that  his  own  life  might  be 
spared  until  this  hope  had  been  realized. 

Endicott  W.  was  also  looked  upon  as  their  future  pastor 
by  many  of  the  good  parishioners  ;  and  never  did  a  more 
pure  and  gentle  spirit  take  upon  himself  the  task  of  prepa 
ring  to  minister  to  a  people  in  holy  things.  He  was  the  be 
loved  of  his  father,  the  only  child  who  had  ever  blessed  him 
— for  he  had  not  married  till  late  in  life,  and  the  warm 
affections  which  had  been  so  tardily  bestowed  upon  one  of 
the  gentler  sex,  were  now  with  an  unusual  fervor  lavished 
upon  this  image  of  her  who  was  gone. 

When  Endicott  W.  returned  home,  having  completed  his 
studies  at  the  University,  he  was  requested  by  our  parish  to 
settle  as  associate  pastor  with  his  father,  whose  failing 
strength  was  unequal  to  the  regular  discharge  of  his  paro 
chial  duties.  It  was  indeed  a  beautiful  sight  to  see  that  old 
man,  with  bending  form  and  silvery  locks,  joining  in  the 
public  ministrations  with  his  young  and  gifted  son — the  one 
with  a  calm  expression  of  trusting  faith  ;  the  countenance 
of  the  other  beaming  with  that  of  enthusiasm  and  hope. 

Endicott  was  ambitious.  He  longed  to  see  his  own  name 
placed  in  the  bright  constellation  of  famed  theologians ;  and 
though  he  knew  that  years  must  be  spent  in  toil  for  the  at 
tainment  of  that  object,  he  was  willing  that  they  should  be 
thus  devoted.  The  midnight  lamp  constantly  witnessed  the 
devotions  of  Endicott  W.  at  the  shrine  of  science  ;  and  the 


52  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

wasting  form  and  fading  cheek  told  what  would  be  the  fate 
of  the  infatuated  worshipper. 

It  was  long  before  our  young  pastor,  his  aged  father,  and 
the  idolizing  people,  who  were  so  proud  of  his  talents,  and 
such  admirers  of  his  virtues, — it  was  long  ere  these  co^ild  be 
made  to  believe  he  was  dying ;  but  Endicott  W.  departed 
from  life,  as  a  bright  cloud  fades  away  in  a  noon-day  sky — 
for  his  calm  exit  was  surrounded  by  all  which  makes  a 
death-bed  glorious.  His  aged  father  said,  "  The  Lord  gave, 
and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away  ;  blessed  be  the  name  of  the 
Lord."  And  then  he  went  again  before  his  flock,  and  en 
deavored  to  reconcile  them  to  their  loss,  and  dispense  again 
the  comforts  and  blessings  of  the  gospel,  trusting  that  his 
strength  would  still  be  spared,  until  one,  who  was  even  then 
preparing,  should  be  ready  to  take  his  place. 

Shall  I  tell  you  now  of  my  own  home "?  It  was  a  rude 
farm-houss,  almost  embowered  by  ancient  trees,  which  cov 
ered  the  sloping  hill-side  on  which  it  was  situated  ;  and  it 
looked  like  an  old  pilgrim,  who  had  crawled  into  the  thicket 
to  rest  his  limbs,  and  hide  his  poverty.  My  parents  were 
poor,  toiling,  care-worn  beings,  and  in  a  hard  struggle  for 
the  comforts  of  this  life  had  almost  forgotten  to  prepare  for 
that  which  is  to  come.  It  is  true,  the  outward  ordinances 
of  religion  were  never  neglected  ;  but  the  spirit,  the  feeling, 
the  interest,  in  short  all  that  is  truly  deserving  the  name  of 
piety,  was  wanting.  My  father  toiled  through  the  burning 
heat  of  summer,  and  the  biting  frost  of  winter,  for  his  loved 
ones;  and  my  mother  also  labored,  from  the  first  dawn  of 
day  till  a  late  hour  at  night  in  behalf  of  her  family!  She 
was  true  to  her  duties  as  wife  and  mother,  but  it  was  from 
no  higher  motive  than  the  instincts  which  prompt  the  fowls 
of  the  air  to  cherish  their  brood ;  and  though  she  perhaps 
did  not  believe  that  "  labor  was  the  end  of  life,"  atill  her 
•  conduct  would  have  given  birth  to  that  supposition. 

I  had  been  for  some  time  the  youngest  of  the  family,  when 
a  little  brother  was  born.  He  was  warmly  welcomed  by  us, 
though  we  had  long  believed  the  family  circle  complete. — 
We  were  not  then  aware  at  how  dear  a  price  the  little 
stranger  was  to  be  purchased.  From  the  moment  of  his 
birth,  my  mother  never  knew  an  hour  of  perfect  health. 
She  had  previously  injured  her  constitution  by  unmitigated 


VILLAGE     PASTORS.  53 

toil,  and  now  were  the  effects  to  he  more  sensibly  felt.     She 
lived  very  many  years  ;•  hut  it  was  the  life  of  an  invalid. 

Header,  did  you  ever  hear  of  the  "  thirty  years'  con 
sumption  ?  "  a  disease  at  present  unknown  in  New  England 
— for  that  scourge  of  our  climate  will  now  complete  in  a  few 
months  the  destruction  which  it  took  years  of  desperate 
struggle  to  perform  upon  the  constitutions  of  our  more  hardy 
ancestors. 

My  mother  was  in  such  a  consumption — that  disorder 
which  comes  upon  its  victim  like  the  Aurorean  flashes  in  an 
Arctic  sky,  now  vivid  in  its  pure  loveliness,  and  then 
shrouded  in  a  sombre  gloom.  Now  we  hoped,  nay,  almost 
believed,  she  was  to  be  again  quite  well,  and  anon  we 
watched  around  a  bed  from  which  we  feared  she  would 
never  arise. 

It  was  strange  to  us,  who  had  always  seen  her  so  unre 
mitting  in  her  toilsome  labors,  and  so  careless  in  her  expo 
sure  to  the  elements,  to  watch  around  her  now — to  shield 
her  from  the  lightest  breeze,  or  the  slightest  dampness  of 
the  air — to  guard  her  from  all  intrusion,  and  relieve  her  from 
all  care — to  be  always  reserving  for  her  the  wannest  place 
by  the  fireside,  and  preparing  the  choicest  bit  of  food — to 
be  ever  ready  to  pillow  her  head  and  bathe  her  brow — in 
short,  to  be  never  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  disease. — 
Om:  steps  grew  softer,  and  our  voices  lower,  and  the  still- 
'iur  manners  had  its  influence  upon  our  minds.  The 
hush  was  upon  our  spirits  ;  and  there  can  surely  be  nothing 
so  effectual  in  carrying  the  soul  before  its  Maker,  as  dis 
ease  ;  and  it  may  truly  bo  said  to  every  one  who  enters  the 
chamber  of  sickness,  "  The  place  whereon  thou  standest  is 
holy  ground." 

My  little  brother  was  to  us  an  angel  sent  from  heaven. — 
He  possessed  a  far  more  delicate  frame  and  lofty  intellect 
than  any  other  member  of  the  'family;  and  his  high,  pale 
brow,  and  brilliant  eyes,  were  deemed  sure  tokens  of  uncom 
mon  genius.  My  mother  herself  watched  with  pleasure 
these  indications  of  talent,  although  the  time  had  been  when  • 
a  predilection  for  literary  pursuits  would  have  been  thought 
inconsistent  with  the  common  duties  which  we  were  all  born 
to  fulfil. 

We  had  always  respected  the  learned  and  talented,  but  it 
was  with   a  feeling  akin  to  the  veneration  we  felt  for  the 
inhabitants  of  the  spiritual  world.     They  were  far  above  us, 
5 


54  MIND     AMONGST     THE    SPINDLES. 

and  we  were  content  to  bow  in  reverence.  Our  thoughts 
had  been  restricted  to  the  narrow  circle  of  every-day  duties, 
and  our  highest  aspirations  were  to  be  admitted  at  length,  as 
spectators,  to  the  glory  of  a  material  heaven,  where  streets 
of  gold  and  thrones  of  ivory  form  the  magnificence  of  the 
place.  It  was  different  now. — With  a  nearer  view  of  that 
better  world,  to  which  my  mother  had  received  her  sum 
mons,  came  also  more  elevated  spiritual  and  blissful  views  of 
its  glory  and  perfection.  It  was  another  heaven,  for  she 
was  another  being  ;  and  she  would  have  been  willing  at  any 
moment  to  have  resigned  the  existence  which  she  held  by  so 
frail  a  tenure,  had  it  not  been  for  the  sweet  child  which 
seemed  to  have  been  sent  from  that  brighter  world  to  hasten 
and  prepare  her  for  departure. 

Our  pastor  was  now  a  constant  visitant.  Hitherto  he  had 
found  but  little  to  invite  him  to  our  humble  habitation.  He 
had  been  received  with  awe  and  conbtraint,  and  the  topics  upon 
which  he  loved  to  dwell  touched  no  chord  in  the  hearts  of 
those  whom  he  addressed.  But  now  my  mother  was  anx 
ious  to  pour  into  his  ears  all  the  new-felt  sentiments  and 
emotions  with  which  her  heart  was  filled.  She  washed  to 
share  his  sympathy,  and  receive  his  instructions  ;  for  she 
felt  painfully  conscious  of  her  extreme  ignorance. 

It  was  our  pastor  who  first  noticed  in  my  little  brother  the 
indications  of  mental  superiority;  and  we  felt  then  as  though 
the  magical  powers  of  some  favored  order  of  beings  had 
been  transferred  to  one  in  our  own  home-circle  ;  and  we 
loved  the  little  Winthrop  (for  father  had  named  him  after 
the  old  governor)  with  a  stronger  and  holier  love  than  we 
had  previously  felt  for  each  other.  And  in  these  new  feel 
ings  how  much  was  there  of  happiness !  Though  there  was 
now  less  health,  and  of  course  less  wealth,  in  our  home, 
yet  there  was  also  more  pure  joy. 

I  have  sometimes  been  out  upon  the  barren  hill-side,  and 
thought  that  there  was  no  pleasure  in  standing  on  a  spot  so 
desolate.  I  have  been  again  in  the  same  bare  place,  and 
there  was  a  balmy  odor  in  the  delicious  air,  which  made  it 
bliss  but  to  inhale  the  fragrance.  Some  spicy  herb  had  car 
peted  the  ground,  and  though  too  lowly  and  simple  to  attract 
the  eye,  yet  the  charm  it  threw  around  the  scene  was  not 
less  entrancing  because  so  viewless  and  unobtrusive. 

Such  was  the  spell  shed  around  our  lowly  home  by  the 
presence  of  religion.  It  was  with  us  the  exhalation  from 


VILLAGE    PASTORS.  55 

lowly  plants,  and  the  pure  fragrance  went  up  the  more  freely 
because  they  had  been  bruised.  In  our  sickness  and  poverty 
we  had  joy  in  the  present,  and  bright  hopes  for  the  future. 

It  was  early  decided  that  Winlhrop  should  be  a  scholar. — 
Our  pastor  said  it  must  be  so,  and  Endicott,  who  was  but  a 
few  years  older,  assisted  him  in  his  studies.  They  were 
very  much  together,  and  excepting  in  their  own  families,  had 
no  other  companion.  But  when  my  brother  returned  from  the 
pastor's  study  with  a  face  radiant  with  the  glow  of  newly- 
acquired  knowledge,  and  a  heart  overflowing  in  its  desire  to 
impart  to  others,  he  usually  went  to  his  pale,  emaciated 
mother  to  give  vent  to  his  sensations  of  joy,  and  came  to  me 
to  bestow  the  boon  of  knowledge.  I  was  the  nearest  in  age. 
I  had  assisted  to  rear  his  infancy,  and  been  his  constant  com 
panion  in  childhood  ;  and  now  our  intercourse  was  to  be 
continued  and  strengthened,  amidst  higher  purposes  and 
loftier  feelings.  I  was  the  depository  of  all  his  hopes  and 
fears,  the  sharer  of  all  his  plans  for  the  future ;  and  his  aim 
was  then  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  Endicott  W.  If  he 
could  only  be  as  good,  as  kind  and  learned,  he  should  think 
himself  one  of  the  best  of  mankind. 

When  Endicott  became  our  pastor,  my  brother  was  ready 
to  enter  college,  with  the  determination  to  consecrate  him 
self  to  the  same  high  calling.  It  seemed  hardly  like  reality 
to  us,  that  one  of  our  own  poor  household  was  to  be  an 
educated  man.  We  felt  lifted  up — not  with  pride — for  the 
feeling  wrhich  elevated  us  was  too  pure  for  that ;  but  we  es 
teemed  ourselves  better  than  we  had  ever  been  before,  and 
strove  to  be  more  worthy  of  the  high  gift  which  had  been 
bestowed  upon  us.  When  my  brother  left  home,  it  was 
with  the  knowledge  that  self-denial  was  to  be  practised,  for 
his  sake,  by  those  who  remained  ;  but  he  also  knew  that  it 
was  to  be  willingly,  nay,  joyously  performed.  Still  he  did 
not  know  all.  Even  things  which  heretofore,  in  our  poverty, 
we  had  deemed  essential  to  comfort,  wrere  now  resigned. — 
We  did  not  even  permit  my  mother  to  know  how  differently 
the  table  was  spread  for  her  than  for  our  own  frugal  repast. 
Neither  was  she  aware  how  late  and  painfully  I  toiled  to 
prevent  the  hire  of  additional  service  upon  our  little  farm. 
The  joy  in  the  secret  depths  of  my  heart  was  its  own  reward  ; 
and  never  yet  have  I  regretted  an  effort  or  a  sacrifice  made 
then.  It  was  a  discipline  like  the  refiner's  fire,  and  but  for 
my  brother,  I  should  never  have  been  even  as,  with  all  my 
imperfections,  I  trust  I  am  now. 


56  MIND    AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 

My  brother  returned  from  college  as  the  bright  sun  of 
Endicott  W.'s  brief  career  was  low  in  a  western  sky.  He 
had  intended  to  study  with  him  for  the  same  vocation — and 
with  him  he  did  prepare.  O,  there  could  have  been  no  more 
fitting  place  to  imbue  the  mind  with  that  wisdom  which 
cometh  from  above,  that  the  sick  room  at  our  pastor's. 

"  The  chamber  where  the  good  man  meets  his  fate, 
Is  privileged  beyond  the  common  walks  of  life," — 

and  Endicott's  was  like  the  shelter  of  some  bright  spirit 
from  the  other  world,  who,  for  the  sake  of  those  about  him, 
was  delaying  for  a  while  his  return  to  the  home  above. — 
My  brother  was  with  him  in  his  latest  hours,  and  received  as 
a  dying  bequest  the  charge  of  his  people.  The  parish  also 
were  anxious  that  he  should  be  Endicott's  successor  ;  and  in 
the  space  requested  for  farther  preparation,  our  old  pastor 
returned  to  his  pulpit. 

But  he  had  overrated  his  own  powers; 'and  besides,  he 
was  growing  blind.  There  were  indeed  those  who  said 
that,  notwithstanding  his  calmness  in  the  presence  of  others, 
he  had  in  secret  wept  his  sight  away ;  and  that  while  a 
glimmer  of  it  remained,  the  curtain  of  his  window,  which 
overlooked  the  grave-yard,  had  never  been  drawn.  He 
ceased  his  labors,  but  a  temporary  substitute  was  easily 
found — for,  as  old  Deacon  S.  remarked,*"  There  are  many 
ministers  now,  who  are  glad  to  go  out  to  day's  labor." 

My  mother  had  prayed  that  strength  might  be  imparted 
to  her  feeble  frame,  to  retain  its  rejoicing  inhabitant  until 
she  could  see  her  son  a  more  active  laborer  in  the  Lord's 
vineyard  ;  "  and  then,"  said  she,  "  I  can  depart  in  peace." 
For  years  she  had  hoped  the  time  would  come,  but  dared  not 
hope  to  see  it.  But  life  was  graciously  spared;  and  the  day 
which  was  to  see  him  set  apart  as  peculiarly  a  servant  of  his 
Gop1,  dawned  upon  her  in  better  health  than  she  had  known 
for  years.  Perhaps  it  was  the  glad  spirit  which  imparted 
its  renewing  glow  to  the  worn  body,  but  she  went  with  us 
that  day  to  the  service  of  ordination.  The  old  church  was 
thronged ;  and  as  the  expression  of  thankfulness  went  up 
from  the  preacher's  lips,  that  one  so  worthy  was  then  to  be 
dedicated  to  his  service,  my  own  heart  was  subdued  by  the 
solemn  joy  that  he  was  one  of  us.  JMy  own  soul  was  pour 
ed  out  in  all  the  exercises  ;  but  when  the  charge  was  given, 
there  was  also  an  awe  upon  all  the  rest. 


VILLAGE    PASTORS.  57 

Our  aged  pastor  had  been  led  into  his  pulpit,  that  he 
might  perform  this  ceremony ;  and  when  he  arose  with  his 
silvery  locks,  thinned  even  since  he  stood  there  last,  and 
raised  his  sightless-eyes  to  heaven,  I  freely  wept.  He  was 
in  that  pulpit  where  he  had  stood  so  many  years,  to  warn, 
to  guide,  and  to  console  ;  and  probably  each  familiar  face 
was  then  presented  to  his  imagination.  He  was  where  his 
dear  departed  son  had  exercised  the  ministerial  functions, 
and  the  same  part  of  the  service  which  he  had  performed  at 
his  ordination,  he  was  to  enact  again  for  his  successor.  The 
blind  old  man  raised  his  trembling  hand,  and  laid  it  upon  the 
head  of  the  young  candidate  ;  and  as  the  memories  of  the 
past  came  rushing  over  him,  he  burst  forth  in  a  strain  of 
heart-stirring  eloquence.  There  was  not  a  tearless  eye  in 
the  vast  congregation  ;  and  the  remembrance  of  that  hour 
had  doubtless  a  hallowing  influence  upon  the  young  pastor's 
life. 

My  brother  was  settled  for  five  years,  and  as  we  departed 
from  the  church,  I  heard  Deacon  S.  exclaim,  in  his  bitter 
ness  against  modern  degeneracy  in  spiritual  things,  that 
"the  old  pastor  was  settled  for  life."  "So  is  the  new 
one,"  said  a  low  voice  in  reply  ;  and  for  the  first  time  the 
idea  was  presented  to  my  mind  that  Winthrop  was  to  be, 
like  Endicott  W.,  one  of  the  early  called. 

But  the  impression  departed  in  my  constant  intercourse 
with  him  in  his  home — for  our  lowly  dwelling  was  still  the 
abode  of  the  new  pastor.  He  would  never  remove  from  it 
while  his  mother  lived,  and  an  apartment  was  prepared  for 
him  adjoining  hers.  They  were  pleasant  rooms,  for  during 
the  few  past  ye  irs  he  had  done  much  to  beautify  the  place, 
and  the  shrubs  which  he  had  planted  were  already  at  their 
growth.  The  thick  vines  also  which  had  struggled  over  the 
building,  were  now  gracefully  twined  around  the  windows, 
and  some  of  the  old  trees  cut  down,  that  we  might  be  allow 
ed  a  prospect.  Still  all  that  could  conduce  to  beauty  was 
retained  ;  and  I  ha\e  often  thought  how  easily  and  cheaply 
the  votary  of  true  taste  can  enjoy  its  pleasures. 

Winthrop  was  now  so  constantly  active  and  cheerful,  that 
I  could  not  think  of  death  as  connected  with  him.  But  I 
knew  that  he  was  feeble,  and  watched  and  cherished  him, 
as  I  had  done  when  he  "was  but  a  little  child.  Though  in 
these  respects  his  guardian,  in  others  I  was  his  pupil.  I 
sat  before  him,  as  Mary  did  at  the  Messiah's  feet,  and  glad- 


58  MIND     AMONGST    THE     SPINDLES. 

ly  received  his  instructions.  My  heart  went  out  with  him  in 
all  the  various  functions  of  his  calling.  I  often  went  with 
him  to  the  bed-side  of  the  sick,  and  to  the  habitations  of  the 
wretched.  None  knew  better  than  he  did,  how  to  still  the 
throbbings  of  the  wrung  heart,  and  administer  consolation. 

I  was  present  also,  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  sprinkled 
an  infant's  brow  with  the  waters  of  consecration  ;  and  when 
he  had  blessed  the  babe,  he  also  prayed  that  we  might  all 
become  even  as  that  little  child.  I  was  with  him,  too,  when 
for  the  first  time  he  joined  in  holy  bands,  those  whom  none 
but  God  should  ever  put  asunder  ;  and  if  the  remembrance 
of  the  fervent  petition  which  went  up  for  them,  has  dwelt  as 
vividly  in  their  hearts  as  it  has  in  mine,  that  prayer  must 
have  had  a  holy  influence  upon  their  lives. 

I  have  said  that  I  remember  his  first  baptism  and  wed 
ding  ;  but  none  who  were  present  will  forget  his  first  funer 
al.  It  was  our  mother's.  She  had  lived  so  much  beyond 
our  expectations,  and  been  so  graciously  permitted  to  wit 
ness  the  fulfilment  of  her  dearest  hope,  that  when  at  length 
the  spirit  winged  its  flight,  we  all  joined  in  the  thanksgiving 
which  went  up  from  the  lips  of  her  latest-born,  that  she  had 
been  spared  so  long. 

It  was  a  beautiful  Sabbath — that  day  appointed  for  her 
funeral — but  in  the  morning  a  messenger  came  to  tell  us 
that  the  clergyman  whom  we  expected  was  taken  suddenly 
ill.  What  could  be  done?  Our  old  pastor  was  then  confin 
ed  to  his  bed,  and  on  this  day  all  else  were  engaged.  "  I 
will  perform  the  services  myself,"  said  Winthrop.  "I  shall 
even  be  happy  to  do  it." 

"  Nay,"  said  I,  "  you  are  feeble,  and  already  spent  with 
study  and  watching.  It  must  not  be  so." 

"  Do  not  attempt  to  dissuade  me,  sister,"  he  replied. 
"  There  will  be  many  to  witness  the  interment  of  her  who 
has  hovered  upon  the  brink  of  the  grave  so  long  ;  and  has 
not  almost  every  incident  of  her  life,  from  my  very  birth, 
been  a  text  from  which  important  lessons  may  be  drawn?  " 
And  then,  fixing  his  large  mild  eyes  full  upon  me,  as  though 
he  would  utter  a  truth  which  duty  forbade  him  longer  to 
suppress,  he  added,  "  I  dare  not  misimprove  this  opportuni 
ty.  This  first  death  in  my  parish  may  also  be  the  last. 
Nay,  weep  not,  my  sister,  because  I  may  go  next.  The 
time  at  best  is  short,  and  I  must  work  while  the  day  lasts." 

I  did  not  answer.     My  heart  was  full,  and  I  turned  away. 


VILLAGE    PASTORS.  59 

That  day  my  brother  ascended  his  pulpit  to  conduct  the  fu 
neral  services,  and  in  them  he  did  make  of  her  life  a  lesson 
to  all  present.  But  when  he  addressed  himself  particularly 
to  the  young,  the  middle-aged  and  the  old,  his  eyes  kindled, 
and  his  cheeks  glowed,  as  he  varied  the  subject  to  present 
the  "  king  of  terrors"  in  a  different  light  to  each.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  mourners.  And  who  were  they  ?  His  own 
aged  father,  the  companion  for  many  years  of  her  who  was 
before  them  in  her  shroud.  His  own  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  the  little  ones  of  the  third  generation,  whose  childish 
memories  had  not  even  yet  forgotten  her  dying  blessing. 
He  essayed  to  speak,  but  in  vain.  The  flush  faded  from  his 
cheek  till  he  was  deadly  pale.  Again  he  attempted  to  ad 
dress  us,  and  a^ain  in  vain.  He  raised  his  hand,  and  buried 
his  face  in  the  folds  of  his  white  handkerchief.  I  also  cov 
ered  my  eyes,  and  there  was  a  deep  stillness  throughout  the 
assembly.  At  that  moment  I  thought  more  of  the  living 
than  of  the  dead  ;  and  then  there  was  a  rush  among  the 
great  congregation,  like  the  sudden  bursting  forth  of  a  migh 
ty  torrent. 

I  raised  my  eyes,  but  could  see  no  one  in  the  pulpit.  The 
next  instant  it  was  filled.  I  also  pressed  forward,  and  unim 
peded  ascended  the  steps,  for  all  stood  back  that  I  might 
pass.  I  reached  him  as  he  lay  upon  the  seat  where  he  hint 
fallen,  and  the  handkerchief,  which  was  still  pressed  to  his 
lips,  was  wet  with  blood.  They  bore  him  down,  and 
through  the  aisle  ;  and  when  he  passed  the  coffin,  he  raised 
his  head,  and  gazed  a  moment  upon  that  calm,  pale  face. 
Then  casting  upon  all  around  a  farewell  glance,  he  sunk 
gently  back,  and  closed  his  eyes. 


A  few  evenings  after,  I  was  sitting  by  his  bed-side.  The 
bright  glow  of  a  setting  sun  penetrated  the  white  curtains  of 
his  windows,  and  fell  with  softened  lustre  upon  his  face. 
The  shadows  of  the  contiguous  foliage  were  dancing  upon 
the  curtains,  the  floor,  and  the  snowy  drapery  of  his  bed; 
and  as  he  looked  faintly  up,  he  murmured,  "  It  is  a  beauti 
ful  world  ;  but  the  other  is  glorious !  and  my  mother  is 
there,  and  Endicott.  See  !  they  arc  beckoning  to  me,  and 
smiling  joyfully  ! — Mother,  dear  mother,  and  Endicott,  I  am 


60  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

His  voice  and  looks  expressed  such  conviction  of  the  real 
ity  of  what  he  saw,  that  I  also  looked  up  to  see  those  beau 
tiful  spirits.  My  glance  of  disappointment  recalled  him  ; 
and  he  smiled  as  he  said,  "  I  think  it  was  a  dream  ;  but  it 
will  be  reality  soon. — Do  not  go,"  said  he,  as  I  arose  to  call 
for  others.  "  Do  not  fear,  sister.  The  bands  are  very 
loose,  and  the  spirit  will  go  gently,  and  perhaps  even  before 
you  could  return." 

I  reseated  myself,  and  pressing  his  wasted  hand  in  mine, 
I  watched,— 

"As  through  his  breast,  the  wave  of  life 
Heaved  gently  to  and  fro." 

A  few  moments  more,  and  I  was  alone  with  the  dead. 

We  buried  Winthrop  by  the  side  of  Endicott  W.,  and  the 
old  pastor  was  soon  laid  beside  them.  *  *  *  * 

Years  have  passed  since  then,  and  I  still  love  to  visit  those 
three  graves.  But  other  feelings  mingle  with  those  which 
once  possessed  my  soul.  I  hear  those  whose  high  vocation 
was  once  deemed  a  sure  guarantee  for  their  purity,  either 
basely  calumniated,  or  terribly  condemned.  Their  morality 
is  questioned,  their  sincerity  doubted,  their  usefulness  deni 
ed,  and  their  pretensions  scoffed  at.  It  may  be  that  unholy 
hands  are  sometimes  laid  upon  the  ark,  and  that  change  of 
times  forbids  such  extensive  usefulness  as  was  in  the  power 
of  the  clergymen  of  New  England  in  former  days.  But 
when  there  comes  a  muttering  cry  of  "  Down  with  the 
priesthood  !  "  and  a  denial  of  the  good  which  they  have  ef 
fected,  my  soul  repels  the  insinuation,  as  though  it  were 
blasphemy.  I  think  of  the  first  three  pastors  of  our  village, 
and  I  reverence  the  ministerial  office  and  its  labors, 


'  If  I  but  remember  only, 
That  such  as  these  have  lived,  and  died." 


SUSANNA. 


THE    SUGAR-MAKING    EXCURSION.  61 


THE  SUGAR-MAKING  EXCURSION. 

IT  was  on  a  beautiful  morning"  in  the  month  of  March, 
(one  of  those  mornings  so  exhilarating  that  they  make  even 
age  and  decrepitude  long  for  a  ramble),  that  friend  H.  call 
ed  to  invite  me  to  visit  his  sugar-lot — as  he  called  it — in 
company  with  the  party  which,  in  the  preceding  summer, 
visited  Moose  Mountain  upon  the  whortleberry  excursion. 
It  was  with  the  pleasure  generally  experienced  in  revisiting 
former  scenes,  in  quest  of  novelty  and  to  revive  impressions 
and  friendships,  that  our  party  set  out  for  this  second  visit  to 
Moose  Mountain. 

A  pleasant  sleigh-ride  of  four  or  five  miles,  brought  us 
safely  to  the  domicile  of  friend  H.,  who  had  readied  home 
an  hour  previously,  and  was  prepared  to  pilot  us  to  his  su 
gar-camp.  "  Before  we  go,"  said  he,  "  you  must  one  and 
all  step  within  doors,  and  warm  your  stomachs  with  some 
gingered  cider."  We  complied  with  his  request,  and  after 
a  little  social  chat  with  Mrs.  H.,  who  welcomed  us  with  a 
cordiality  not  to  be  surpassed,  and  expressed  many  a  kind 
wish  that  we  might  spend  the  day  agreeably,  we  made  for 
the  sugar-camp,  preceded  by  friend  H.,  who  walked  by  the 
side  of  his  sleigh,  which  appeared  to  be  well  loaded,  and 
which  he  steadied  with  the  greatest  care  at  every  uneven 
place  in  the  path. 

Arrived  at  the  camp,  we  found  two  huge  iron  kettles  sus 
pended  on  a  pole,  which  was  supported  by  crotched  stakes, 
driven  in  the  ground,  and  each  half  full  of  boiling  syrup. 
This  was  made  by  boiling  down  the  sap,  which  was  gath 
ered  from  troughs  that  were  placed  under  spouts  which 
were  driven  into  rock-maple  trees,  an  incision  being  first 
made  in  the  tree  with  an  auger.  Friend  H.  told  us  that  it 
had  taken  more  than  two  barrels  of  sap  to  make  what  syrup 
each  kettle  contained.  A  steady  fire  of  oak  bark  was  burn 
ing  underneath  the  kettles,  and  the  boys  and  girls,  friend 
H.'s  sons  and  daughters,  were  busily  engaged  in  stirring 
the  syrup,  replenishing  the  fire,  &c. 

Abigail,  the  eldest  daughter,  went  to  her  father's  sleigh, 
and  taking  out  a  large  rundlet,  which  might  contain  two  or 
three  gallons,  poured  the  contents  into  a  couple  of  pails. 
This  we  perceived  was  milk,  and  as  she  raised  one  of  the 


62  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

pails  to  empty  the  contents  into  the  kettles,  her  father  call 
ed  out,  "Ho,  Abigail!  hast  thee  strained  the  milk?" 
"  Yes,  father,"  said  Abigail. 

"  Well,"  said  friend  H.,  with  a  chuckle,  "  Abigail  un 
derstands  what  she  is  about,  as  well  as  her  mother  would  ; 
and  I'll  warrant  Hannah  to  make  better  maple-sugar  than 
any  other  woman  in  New  England,  or  in  the  whole  United 
States — and  you  will  agree  with  me  in  that,  after  that  su 
gar  is  turned  off  and  cooled."  Abigail  turned  to  her  work, 
emptied  her  milk  into  the  kettles,  and  then  stirred  their  con 
tents  well  together,  and  put  some  bark  on  the  fire. 

"  Come,  Jemima,"  said  Henry  L.,  "  let  us  try  to  assist 
Abigail  a  little,  and  perhaps  we  shall  learn  to  make  sugar 
ourselves ;  and  who  knows  but  what  she  will  give  us  a 
'  gob  '  to  carry  home  as  a  specimen  to  show  our  friends ; 
and  besides,  it  is  possible  that  we  may  have  to  make  sugar 
ourselves  at  some  time  or  other  ;  and  even  if  we  do  not,  it 
will  never  do  us  any  harm  to  know  how  the  thing  is  done." 
Abigail  furnished  us  each  with  a  large  brass  scummer,  and 
instructed  us  to  take  off  the  scum  as  it  arose,  and  put  it  into 
the  pails  ;  and  Henry  called  two  others  of  our  party  to  come 
and  hold  the  pails. 

"  But  tell  me,  Abigail,"  said  Henry,  with  a  roguish  leer, 
"  was  that  milk  really  intended  for  whitening  the  sugar?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Abigail  with  all  the  simplicity  of  a  Quaker 
ess,  "  for  thee  must  know  that  the  milk  will  all  rise  in  a 
scum,  and  with  it  every  particle  of  dirt  or  dust  which  may 
have  found  its  way  into  the  kettles." 

Abigail  made  a  second  visit  to  her  father's  sleigh,  accom 
panied  by  her  little  brother,  and  brought  from  thence  a  large 
tin  baker,  and  placed  it  before  the  fire.  Her  brother  brought 
a  peck  measure  two-thirds  fall  of  potatoes,  which  Abigail 
put  into  the  baker,  and  leaving  them  to  their  fate,  returned 
to  the  sleigh,  and  with  her  brother's  assistance  carried  sev 
eral  parcels,  neatly  done  up  in  white  napkins,  into  a  little 
log  hut  of  some  fifteen  feet  square,  with  a  shed  roof  made  of 
slabs.  We  began  to  fancy  that  we  were  to  have  an  Irish 
lunch.  Henry  took  a  sly  peep  into  the  hut  when  we  first 
arrived,  and  he  declared  that  there  was  nothing  inside,  save 
some  squared  logs,  which  were  placed  back  against  the 
walls,  and  which  he  supposed  were  intended  for  seats.  But 
he  was  mistaken  in  thinking  that  seats  were  every  conveni 
ence  which  the  building  contained, — as  will  presently  be 
shown. 


THE    SUGAR-MAKING    EXCURSION.  63 

Abigail  and  her  brother  had  been  absent,  something  like 
half  an  hour,  and  friend  II.  had  in  the  mean  time  busied  him 
self  in  gathering  sap,  and  putting  it  in  some  barrels  hard  by. 
The  kettles  were  clear  from  scum,  and  their  contents  were 
bubbling  like  soap.  The  fire  was  burning  cheerfully,  the 
company  all  chatting  merrily,  and  a  peep  into  the  baker  told 
that  the  potatoes  were  cooked. 

Abigail  and  her  brother  came,  and  taking  up  the  baker, 
carried  it  inside  the  building,  but  soon  returned,  and  placed 
it  again  before  the  fire.  Then  she  called  to  her  father,  who 
came  and  invited  us  to  go  and  take  dinner. 

We  obeyed  the  summons;  but  how  were  we  surprised, 
when  we  saw  how  neatly  arranged  was  every  thing.  The 
walls  of  the  building  were  ceiled  around  with  boards,  and 
side  tables  fastened  to  them,  which  could  be  raised  or  let 
down  at  pleasure,  being  but  pieces  of  boards  fastened  with 
leather  hinges  and  a  prop  underneath  The  tables  were  cov 
ered  with  napkins,  white  as  the  driven  snow,  and  loaded 
with  cold  ham,  neat's  tongue,  pickles,  bread,  apple-sauce, 
preserves,  dough-nuts,  butter,  cheese,  and  potatoes — without 
which  a  Yankee  dinner  is  never  complete.  For  beverage, 
there  was  chocolate,  which  was  made  over  a  fire  in  the 
building — there  being  a  rock  chimney  in  one  corner. 
"  Now,  neighbors,"  said  friend  H.,  "if  you  will  but  seat 
yourselves  on  these  squared  logs,  and  put  up  with  these 
rude  accommodations,  you  will  do  me  a  favor.  We  might 
have  had  our  dinner  at  the  house,  but  I  thought  that  it  would 
be  a  novelty,  and  afford  more  amusement  to  have  it  in  this 
little  hut,  which  I  built  to  shelter  us  from  what  stormy 
weather  we  might  have  in  the  season  of  making  sugar." 

We  arranged  ourselves  around  the  room,  and  right  merry 
were  we,  for  friend  H.'s  lively  chat  did  not  suffer  us  to  be 
otherwise.  He  recapitulated  to  us  the  manner  of  his  life 
while  a  bachelor ;  the  many  bear-fights  which  he  had  had  ; 
told  us  how  many  bears  he  had  killed  ;  how  a  she-bear  den 
ned  in  his  rock  dwelling  the  first  winter  after  he  commenced 
clearing  his  land — he  having  returned  home  to  his  father's 
to  attend  school ;  how,  when  he  returned  in  the  spring,  he 
killed  her  two  cubs,  and  afterwards  the  old  bear,  and  made 
his  Hannah  a  present  of  their  skins  to  make  a  muff  and  tip 
pet  ;  also  his  courtship,  marriage,  &c. 

In  the  midst  of  dinner,  Abigail  came  in  with  some  hot 
mince-pies,  which  had  been  heating  in  the  baker  before  the 


64  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

fire  out  of  doors,  and  which  said  much  in  praise  of  Mrs.  II. 's 
cookery. 

We  had  finished  eating,  and  were  chatting  as  merrily  as 
might  be,  when  one  of  the  little  boys  called  from  without, 
"  Father,  the  sugar  has  grained."  We  immediately  went 
out,  and  found  one  of  the  boys  stirring  some  sugar  in  a  bowl 
to  cool  it.  The  fire  was  raked  from  beneath  the  kettles, 
and  Abigail  and  her  eldest  brother  were  stirring  their  con 
tents  with  all  haste.  Friend  H.  put  a  pole  within  the  bail 
of  one  of  the  kettles,  and  raised  it  up,  which  enabled  two  of 
the  company  to  take  the  other  down,  and  having  placed  it 
in  the  snow,  they  assisted  friend  H.  to  take  down  the  other; 
and  while  we  lent  a  helping  hand  to  stir  and  cool  the  sugar, 
friend  H.'s  children  ate  their  dinners,  cleared  away  the  ta 
bles,  put  what  fragments  were  left  into  their  father's  sleigh, 
together  with  the  dinner-dishes,  tin  baker,  rundlet,  and  the 
pails  of  scum,  which  were  to  be  carried  home  for  the  swine. 
A  firkin  was  also  put  into  the  sleigh  ;  and  after  the  sugar 
was  sufficiently  cool,  it  was  put  into  the  firkin,  and  covered 
up  with  great  care. 

After  this  we  spent  a  short  time  promenading  around  the 
rock-maple  grove,  if  leafless  trees  can  be  called  a  grove.  A 
large  sap-trough,  which  was  very  neatly  made,  struck  my 
fancy,  and  friend  H.  said  he  would  make  me  a  present  of  it 
for  a  cradle.  This  afforded  a  subject  for  mirth.  Friend  H. 
said  that  we  must  not  ridicule  the  idea  of  having  sap-troughs 
for  cradles  ;  for  that  was  touching  quality,  as  his  eldest 
child  had  been  rocked  many  an  hour  in  a  sap-trough,  be 
neath  the  shade  of  a  tree,  while  his  wife  sat  beside  it  knit 
ting,  and  he  was  hard  by,  hoeing  corn. 

Soon  we  were  on  our  way  to  friend  H.'s  house,  which  we 
all  reached  in  safety  ;  and  where  we  spent  an  agreeable  eve 
ning,  eating  maple  sugar,  apples,  beech-nuts,  &c.  We  also 
had  tea  about  eight  o'clock,  which  was  accompanied  by  ev 
ery  desirable  luxury — after  which  we  started  for  home. 

As  we  were  about  taking  leave,  Abigail  made  each  of  us 
a  present  of  a  cake  of  sugar,  which  was  cooled  in  a  tin  heart. 
— "  Heigh  ho  !"  said  Henry  L.,  "  how  lucky!  We  have 
had  an  agreeable  visit,  a  bountiful  feast — have  learned  how 
to  make  sugar,  and  have  all  got  sweethearts !  " 

We  went  home,  blessing  our  stars  and  the  hospitality  of 
our  Quaker  friends. 

I  cannot  close  without  telling  the  reader,  that  the  sugar 


PREJUDICE  AGAINST  LABOR.  65 

which  was  that  day  made,  was  nearly   as  white  as  loaf  su 
gar,  and  tasted  much  better. 

JEMIMA. 


PREJUDICE  AGAINST  LABOR. 

CHAPTER    I. 

MRS.  K.  and  her  daughter  Emily  were  discussing  the  pro 
priety  of  permitting  Martha  to  be  one  of  the  party  which  was 
to  be  given  at  Mr.  K.'s  the  succeeding  Tuesday  evening,  to 
celebrate  the  birth-day  of  George,  who  had  lately  returned 
from  college.  Martha  was  the  niece  of  Mr.  K.  She  was 
an  interesting  girl  of  about  nineteen  years  of  age,  who,  hav 
ing  had  the  misfortune  to  loose  her  parents,  rather  preferred 
working  in  a  factory  for  her  support,  than  to  be  dependent 
on  the  charity  of  her  friends.  Martha  was  a  favorite  in  the 
family  of  her  uncle  ;  and  Mrs.  K.,  notwithstanding  her  aris 
tocratic  prejudices,  would  gladly  have  her  niece  present  at 
the  party,  were  it  not  for  fear  of  what  people  might  say,  if 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  K.  suffered  their  children  to  appear  on  a  level 
with  factory  operatives. 

"  Mother,"  said  Emily,  "  I  do  wish  there  was  not  such  a 
prejudice  against  those  who  labor  for  a  living  ;  and  especial 
ly  against  those  who  work  in  a  factory  ;  for  then  Martha 
might  with  propriety  appear  at  George's  party  ;  but  I  know 
it  would  be  thought  disgraceful  to  be  seen  at  a  party  with  a 
factory  girl,  even  if  she  is  one's  own  cousin,  and  without  a 
single  fault.  And  besides,  the  Miss  Lindsays  are  invited, 
and  if  Martha  should  be  present,  they  will  be  highly  offend 
ed,  and  make  her  the  subject  of  ridicule.  I  would  not  for 
my  life  have  Martha's  feelings  wounded,  as  I  know  they 
would  be,  if  either  of  the  Miss  Lindsays  should  ask  her  when 
she  left  Lowell,  or  how  long  she  had  worked  in  a  factory." 

"  Well,  Emily,"  said  Mrs.  K.,  "  I  do  not  know  how  we 
shall  manage  to  keep  up  appearances,  and  also  spare  Mar 
tha's  feelings,  unless  we  can  persuade  your  father  to  take 
her  with  him  to  Acton,  on  the  morrow,  and  leave  her  at 
your  uncle  Theodore's.  I  do  not  see  any  impropriety  in  this 
step,  as  she  proposes  to  visit  Acton  before  she  returns  to 
Lowell." 


66  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

"  You  will  persuade  me  to  no  such  thing,"  said  Mr.  K., 
stepping  to  the  door  of  his  study,  which  opened  from  the 
parlor,  and  which  stood  ajar,  so  that  the  conversation  between 
his  wife  arid  daughter  had  been  overheard  by  Mr.  K.,  and 
also  by  the  Hon.  Mr.  S.,  a  gentleman  of  large  benevolence, 
whose  firmness  of  character  placed  him  far  above  popular 
prejudice.  These  gentlemen  had  been  in  the  study  unknown 
to  Mrs.  K.  and  Emily. 

"  You  will  persuade  me  to  no  such  thing,"  Mr.  K.  repeat 
ed,  as  he  entered  the  parlor  accompanied  by  Mr.  S.  ;  "I  am 
determined  that  my  niece  shall  be  at  the  parly.  However 
loudly  the  public  opinion  may  cry  out  against  such  a  meas 
ure,  I  shall  henceforth  exert  my  influence  to  eradicate  the 
wrong  opinions  entertained  by  what  is  called  good  society, 
respecting  the  degradation  of  labor ;  and  I  will  commence 
by  placing  my  children  and  niece  on  a  level.  The  occupa 
tions  of  people  have  made  too  much  distinction  in  society. 
The  laboring  classes,  who  are  in  fact  the  wealth  of  a  na 
tion,  are  trampled  upon  ;  while  those  whom  dame  Fortune 
has  placed  above,  or  if  you  please,  below  labor,  with  some 
few  honorable  exceptions,  arrogate  to  themselves  all  of  the 
claims  to  good  society.  But  in  my  humble  opinion,  the  rich 
and  the  poor  ought  to  be  equally  respected,  if  virtuous  ;  and 
equally  detested,  if  vicious." 

"  But  what  will  our  acquaintances  say?"  said  Mrs.  K. 

"  It  is  immaterial  to  me  what  '  they  say  '  or  think,"  said 
Mr.  K.,  "so  long  as  I  know  that  I  am  actuated  by  right  mo 
tives." 

"  But  you  know,  my  dear  husband,"  replied  his  wife, 
"  that  the  world  is  censorious,  and  that  much  of  the  good  or 
ill  fortune  of  our  children  will  depend  on  the  company  which 
they  shall  keep.  For  myself,  I  care  but  little  for  the  opin 
ion  of  the  world,  so  long  as  I  have  the  approbation  of  my 
husband,  but  I  cannot  bear  to  have  my  children  treated  with 
coldness  ;  and  besides,  as  George  is  intended  for  the  law,  his 
success  will  in  a  great  measure  depend  on  public  opinion  ; 
and  I  do  not  think  that  even  Esq.  S.  would  think  it  altogeth 
er  judicious,  under  existing  circumstances,  for  us  to  place 
our  children  on  a  level  with  the  laboring  people." 

"  If  I  may  be  permitted  to  express  my  opinion,"  said  Mr. 
S.  "  I  must  say,  in  all  sincerity,  that  I  concur  in  sentiment 
with  my  friend  K.  ;  and,  like  him,  I  would  that  the  line  of 
separation  between  good  and  bad  society  was  drawn  between 


PREJUDICE   AGAINST    LABOR.  67 

the  virtuous  and  the  vicious  ;  and  to  bring  about  this  much- 
to-be-desired  state  of  things,  the  affluent,  those  who  are  al 
lowed  by  all  to  have  an  undisputed  right  to  rank  with  good 
society,  must  begin  the  reformation,  by  exerting  their  influ 
ence  to  raise  up  those  who  are  bowed  down.  Your  fears, 
Mrs.  K.,  respecting  your  son's  success,  are,  or  should  be, 
groundless  ;  for,  to  associate  w?ith  the  laboring  people,  and 
strive  to  raise  them  to  their  proper  place  in  the  scale  of  be 
ing,  should  do  more  for  his  prosperity  in  the  profession 
which  he  has  chosen,  than  he  ought  to  realize  by  a  contrary 
course  of  conduct ;  and,  I  doubt  not,  your  fears  will  prove 
groundless.  So,  my  dear  lady,  rise  above  them  ;  and  also 
above  the  opinions  of  a  gainsaying  multitude — opinions  which 
are  erroneous,  and  which  every  philanthropist,  and  every 
Christian,  should  labor  to  correct." 

The  remarks  of  Esq. S.  had  so  good  an  effect  on  Mrs.  K., 
that  she  relinquished  the  idea  of  sending  Martha  to  Acton. 

CHAPTER    II. 

THE  following  evening  Emily  and  Martha  spent  at  Esq. 
S.'s,  agreeably  to  an  earnest  invitation  from  Mrs.  S.  and  her 
daughter  Susan,  who  were  anxious  to  cultivate  an  acquaint 
ance  with  the  orphan.  These  ladies  were  desirous  to  ascer 
tain  the  real  situation  of  a  factory  girl,  and  if  it  was  as  truly 
deplorable  as  public  fame  had  represented,  they  intended  to 
devise  some  plan  to  place  Martha  in  a  more  desirable  situa 
tion.  Mrs.  S.  had  a  sister,  who  had  long  been  in  a  declin 
ing  state  of  health  ;  and  she  had  but  recently  written  to  Mrs. 
S.  to  allow  Susan  to  spend  a  few  months  with  her,  while  op 
portunity  should  offer  to  engage  a  young  lady  to  live  with 
her  as  a  companion.  This  lady's  husband  was  a  clerk  in 
one  of  the  departments  at  Washington  ;  and,  not  thinking  it 
prudent  to  remove  his  family  to  the  capital,  they  remained 
in  P.;  but  the  time  passed  so  heavily  in  her  husband's  ab 
sence,  as  to  have  a  visible  effect  on  her  health.  Her  physi 
cian  advised  her  not  to  live  so  retired  as  she  did,  but  to  go 
into  lively  company  to  cheer  up  her  spirits  ;  but  she  thought 
it  would  be  more  judicious  to  have  an  agreeable  female  com 
panion  to  live  with  her ;  and  Mrs.  S.  concluded,  from  the 
character  given  her  by  her  uncle,  that  Martha  would  be  just 
such  a  companion  as  her  sister  wanted  ;  and  she  intended  in 


68  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

the  course  of  the  evening  to  invite  Martha  to  accompany  Su 
san  on  a  visit  to  her  aunt. 

The  evening  passed  rapidly  away,  for  the  lively  and  in 
teresting  conversation,  in  the  neat  and  splendid  parlor  of  Esq. 
S.,  did  not  suffer  any  one  present  to  note  the  flight  of  time. 
Martha's  manners  well  accorded  with  the  flattering  descrip 
tion  which  her  uncle  had  given  of  her.  She  had  a  good  flow 
of  language,  and  found  no  difficulty  in  expressing  her  senti 
ments  on  any  subject  which  was  introduced.  Her  descrip 
tion  of  "  Life  in  Lowell"  convinced  those  who  listened  to 
the  clear,  musical  tones  of  her  voice,  that  the  many  reports 
which  they  had  heard,  respecting  the  ignorance  and  vice  of 
the  factory  operatives,  were  the  breathings  of  ignorance, 
wafted  on  the  wings  of  slander,  and  not  worthy  of  credence. 

"  But  with  all  your  privileges,  Martha,"  said  Mrs.  S., 
was  it  not  wearisome  to  labor  so  many  hours  in  a  day?  " 

"  Truly  it  was  at  times,"  said  Martha,  "  and  fewer  hours 
of  labor  would  be  desirable,  if  they  could  command  a  proper 
amount  of  wages  ;  for  in  that  case  there  would  be  more  time 
for  improvement." 

Mrs.  S.  then  gave  Martha  an  invitation  to  accompany  her 
daughter  to  P.,  hoping  that  she  would  accept  the  invitation, 
and  find  the  company  of  her  sister  so  agreeable  that  she 
would  consent  to  remain  with  her,  at  least  for  one  year ;  as 
suring  her  that  if  she  did,  her  privileges  for  improvement 
should  be  equal,  if  not  superior  to  those  she  had  enjoyed  in 
Lowell ;  and  also  that  she  should  not  be  a  loser  in  pecuniary 
matters.  Martha  politely  thanked  Mrs.  S.  for  the  interest 
she  took  in  her  behalf,  but  wished  a  little  time  to  consider 
the  propriety  of  accepting  the  proposal.  But  when  Mrs.  S. 
explained  how  necessary  it  was  that  her  sister  should  have 
a  female  companion  with  her,  during  her  husband's  absence, 
Martha  consented  to  accompany  Susan,  provided  that,  her 
uncle  and  aunt  K.  gave  their  consent. 

"  What  an  interesting  girl  !"  said  Esq.  S.  to  his  lady,  af 
ter  the  young  people  had  retired.  "  Amiable  and  refined  as 
Emily  K.  appears,  Martha's  manners  show  that  her  privile 
ges  have  been  greater,  or  that  her  abilities  are  superior  to 
those  of  Emily.  How  cold  and  calculating,  and  also  unjust, 
was  her  aunt  K.,  to  think  that  it  would  detract  aught  from 
the  respectability  of  her  children  for  Martha  to  appear  in 
company  with  them  !  I  really  hope  that  Mr.  K.  will  allow 
her  to  visit  your  sister.  I  will  speak  to  him  on  the  subject." 


PREJUDICE    AGAINST    LABOR.  69 

"She  w??£tf  gowith  Susan,"  said  Mrs.S.;  "lam  determin 
ed  to  take  no  denial.  Her  sprightly  manners  and  delightful 
conversation  will  cheer  my  sister's  spirits,  and  be  of  more 
avail  in  restoring  her  health  than  ten  physicians." 

Mr.  K.  gave  the  desired  consent,  and  it  was  agreed  by  all 
parties  concerned  that  some  time  in  the  following  week  the 
ladies  should  visit  P.;  and  all  necessary  preparations  were 
immediately  made  for  the  journey. 


CHAPTER    III. 

IT  was  Tuesday  evening,  and  a  whole  bevy  of  young  peo 
ple  had  assembled  at  Mr.  K.'s.  Beauty  and  wit  were  there, 
and  seemed  to  vie  with  each  other  for  superiority.  The 
beaux  and  belles  were  in  high  glee.  All  was  life  and  ani 
mation.  The  door  opened,  and  Mr.  K.  entered  the  room. 
A  young  lady,  rather  above  the  middle  height,  and  of  a  form 
of  the  most  perfect  symmetry,  was  leaning  on  his  arm.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  plain  white  muslin  gown  ;  a  lace  'kerchief 
was  thrown  gracefully  over  her  shoulders,  and  a  profusion 
of  auburn  hair  hung  in  ringlets  down  her  neck,  which  had 
no  decoration  save  a  single  string  of  pearl ;  her  head  was 
destitute  of  ornament,  with  the  exception  of  one  solitary  rose 
bud  on  the  left  temple  ;  her  complexion  was  a  mixture  of 
the  rose  and  the  lily  ;  a  pair  of  large  hazel  eyes,  half  con 
cealed  by  their  long  silken  lashes,  beamed  with  intelligence 
and  expression,  as  they  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  the  compa 
ny.  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  K.,  "  this  is  my 
niece,  Miss  Croly  ;"  and  as  with  a  modest  dignity  she  cour- 
tesied,  a  beholder  could  scarce  refrain  from  applying  to  her 
Milton's  description  of  Eve  when  she  first  came  from  the 
hand  of  her  Creator.  Mr.  K.  crossed  the  room  with  his 
niece,  seated  her  by  the  side  of  his  daughter,  and,  wishing 
the  young  people  a  pleasant  evening,  retired.  The  eyes  of 
all  were  turned  towards  the  stranger,  eager  to  ascertain 
whether  indeed  she  was  the  little  girl  who  once  attended  the 
same  school  with  them,  but  who  had,  for  a  number  of  years 
past,  been  employed  in  a  "  Lowell  factory."  "  Oh,  it  is  the 
same,"  said  the  Miss  Lindsays.  "  How  presumptuous," 
said  Caroline  Lindsay  to  a  gentleman  who  sat  near  her, 
"  thus  to  intrude  a  factory  girl  into  our  company  !  Unless 
I  am  very  much  mistaken,  I  shall  make  her  sorry  for  herim- 
6 


70  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

pudence,  and  wish  herself  somewhere  else  before  the  party 
breaks  up."  "  Indeed,  Miss  Caroline,  you  will  not  try  to 
distress  the  poor  girl;  you  cannot  be  so  cruel,"  said  the 
gentleman,  who  was  no  other  than  the  eldest  son  of  Esq. S., 
who  had  on  the  preceding  day  returned  home,  after  an  ab 
sence  of  two  years  on  a  tour  through  Europe.  "  Cruel  !" 
said  Caroline,  interrupting  him,  "  surely,  Mr.  S.,  you  cannot 
think  it  cruel  to  keep  people  where  they  belong  ;  or  if  they 
get  out  of  the  way,  to  set  them  right ;  and  you  will  soon  see 
that  I  shall  direct  Miss  Presumption  to  her  proper  place,which 
is  in  the  kitchen," — and  giving  her  head  a  toss,she  left  Mr.S. , 
and  seating  herself  by  Emily  and  Martha,  inquired  when  the 
latter  left  Lowell,  and  if  the  factory  girls  were  as  ignoraut 
as  ever. 

Martha  replied  by  informing  her  when  she  left  the  "  city 
of  spindles  ;"  and  also  by  telling  her  that  she  believed  the 
factory  girls,  considering  the  little  time  they  had  for  the  cul 
tivation  of  their  minds,  were  not,  in  the  useful  branches  of 
education,  behind  any  class  of  females  in  the  Union.  "What 
chance  can  they  have  for  improvement?"  said  Caroline  : 
"  they  are  driven  like  slaves  to  and  from  their  work,  for 
fourteen  hours  in  each  day,  and  dare  not  disobey  the  calls  of 
the  factory  bell.  If  they  had  the  means  for  improvement, 
they  have  not  the  time  ;  and  it  must  be  that  they  are  quite 
as  ignorant  as  the  southern  slaves,  and  as  little  fitted  for  so 
ciety."  Martha  colored  to  the  eyes  at  this  unjust  aspersion ; 
and  Emily,  in  pity  to  her  cousin,  undertook  to  refute  the 
charge.  Mr.  S.  drew  near,  and  seating  himself  by  the  cous 
ins,  entered  into  conversation  respecting  the  state  of  society 
in  Lowell.  Martha  soon  recovered  her  self-possession,  and 
joined  in  the  conversation  with  more  than  her  usual  anima 
tion,  yet  with  a  modest  dignity  which  attracted  the  attention 
of  all  present.  She  mentioned  the  evening  schools  for  teach 
ing  penmanship,  grammar,  geography,  and  other  branches 
of  education,  and  how  highly  they  were  prized,  and  how  well 
they  were  attended  by  the  factory  girls.  She  also  spoke 
of  the  Lyceum  and  Institute,  and  other  lectures  ;  and  her  re 
marks  were  so  appropriate  and  sensible,  that  even  those  who 
were  at  first  for  assisting  Caroline  Lindsay  in  directing  her 
to  her  "  proper  place,"  and  who  even  laughed  at  what  they 
thought  to  be  Miss  Lindsay's  wit, — became  attentive  listen 
ers,  and  found  that  even  one  who  "  had  to  work  for  a  living" 
could  by  her  conversation  add  much  to  the  enjoyment  of 
"  good  society." 


PREJUDICE    AGAINST    LABOR.  /  1 

All  wore  now  disposed  to  treat  Martha  with  courtesy ,with 
the  exception  of  the  Miss  Lindsays,  who  sat  biting  their  lips 
for  vexation  ;  mortified  to  think  that  in  trying  to  make  Mar 
tha  an  object  of  ridicule,  they  had  exposed  themselves  to 
contempt.  Mr.  S.  took  upon  himself  the  task  (if  task  it 
could  be  called,  for  one  whose  feelings  were  warmly  enlisted 
in  the  work)  of  explaining  in  a  clear  and  concise  manner  the 
impropriety  of  treating  people  with  contempt  for  none  other 
cause  than  that  they  earned  an  honest  living  by  laboring  with 
their  hands.  He  spoke  of  the  duty  of  the  rich,  with  regard 
to  meliorating  the  condition  of  the  poor,  not  only  in  affairs  of 
a  pecuniary  nature,  hut  also  by  encouraging  them  in  the  way 
of  well-doing,  by  bestowing  upon  them  that  which  would 
cost  a  good  man  or  woman  nothing, — namely,  kind  looks, 
kind  words,  and  all  the  sweet  courtesies  of  life.  His  words 
were  not  lost  ;  for  those  who  heard  him  have  overcome  their 
prejudices  against  labor  and  laboring  people,  and  respect  the 
virtuous  \vhatever  may  be  their  occupation. 


CHAPTER     IV. 

BRIGHT  and  unclouded  was  the  morning  which  witnessed 
the  departure  of  the  family  coach  from  the  door  of  the  Hon. 
Mr.  S.  Henry  accompanied  his  sister  and  the  beautiful 
Martha,  whose  champion  he  had  been  at  the  birth-night  par 
ty  of  George  K.  Arrived  at  P.,  they  found  that  they  were 
not  only  welcome,  but  expected  visitors ;  for  Esq.  S.  had 
previously  written  to  his  sister-in-law,  apprising  her  of  Hen 
ry's  return,  and  his  intention  of  visiting  her  in  company  with 
his  sister  Susan,  and  a  young  lady  whom  he  could  recom 
mend  as  being  just  the  companion  of  which  she  was  in  need. 
In  a  postscript  to  his  letter  he  added,  "  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  commend  this  lovely  orphan  to  your  kindness,  for  1  know 
you  will  appreciate  her  worth." 

When  Henry  S.  took  leave  of  his  aunt  and  her  family, 
and  was  about  to  start  upon  his  homeward  journey,  he  found 
that  a  two  days'  ride,  and  a  week  spent  in  the  society  of 
Martha,  had  been  at  work  with  his  heart.  He  requested  a 
private  interview,  and  what  was  said,  or  what  was  concluded 
on,  I  shall  leave  the  reader  to  imagine,  as  best  suits  his  fan 
cy.  I  shall  also  leave  him  to  imagine  what  the  many  billets- 
doux  contained  which  Henry  sent  to  P.,  and  what  were  the 


72  MIND     AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

answers  he  received,  and  read  with  so  much  pleasure. — As  it 
is  no  part  of  my  business  to  enter  into  any  explanation  of 
that  subject,  I  will  leave  it  and  call  the  reader's  attention  to 
the  sequel  of  my  story,  hoping  to  be  pardoned  if  I  make  it 
as  short  as  possible.  *  *  * 

It  was  a  lovely  moonlight  evening.  The  Hon.  Mr.  S. 
and  lady,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  K.,  and  Caroline  Lindsay,  were 
seated  in  the  parlor  of  Mr.  K. — Caroline  had  called  to  in 
quire  for  Martha,  supposing  her  to  be  in  Lowell.  Caroline's 
father  had  been  deeply  engaged  in  the  eastern  land  specula 
tion,  the  result  of  which  was  a  total  loss  of  property.  This 
made  it  absolutely  necessary  that  his  family  should  labor  for 
their  bread  ;  and  Caroline  had  come  to  the  noble  resolution 
of  going  to  Lowell  to  work  in  a  factory,  not  only  to  support 
herself,  but  to  assist  her  parents  in  supporting  her  little 
brother  and  sisters.  It  was  a  hard  struggle  for  Caroline  to 
bring  her  mind  to  this  ;  but  she  had  done  it,  and  was  now 
ready  to  leave  home.  Dreading  to  go  where  all  were  stran- 

fers,  she  requested  Mr.  K.  to  give  her  directions  where  to 
nd  Martha,  and  to  honor  her  as  the  bearer  of  a  letter  to  his 
niece.  "  I  know,"  said  she,  ''that  Martha's  goodness  of 
heart  will  induce  her  to  secure  me  a  place  of  work,  notwith 
standing  my  former  rudeness  to  her — a  rudeness  \vhich  has 
caused  me  to  suffer  severely,  and  of  which  1  heartily  re 
pent."  Mr.  K.  informed  Caroline  that  he  expected  to  see 
his  niece  that  evening ;  and  he  doubted  not  she  would  re 
commend  Miss  Lindsay  to  the  overseer  with  whom  she  had 
worked  while  in  Lowell ;  and  also  introduce  her  to  good 
society,  which  she  would  find  could  be  enjoyed,  even 
in  the  "  city  of  spindles,"  popular  prejudice  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding.  Esquire  and  Mrs.  S.  approved  of  Caro 
line's  resolution  of  going  to  Lowell,  and  spoke  many  words 
of  encouragement,  and  also  prevailed  on  her  to  accept  of 
something  to  assist  in  defraying  the  expenses  of  her  jour 
ney,  and  to  provide  for  any  exigency  which  might  happen. 
They  were  yet  engaged  in  conversation,  when  a  coach  stop 
ped  at  the  door,  and  presently  George  and  Emily  entered 
the  parlor  !  They  were  followed  by  a  gentleman  and  lady 
in  bridal  habiliments.  George  stepped  back,  and  introduced 
Mr.  Henry  S.  and  lady.  "  Yes,"  said  Henry  laughingly, 
"  I  have  brought  safely  back  the  Factory  Pearl,  which  a 
twelvemonth  since  I  found  in  this  room,  and  which  I  have 
taken  for  my  own.  The  lady  threw  back  her  veil,  and  Miss 
Lindsay  beheld  the  countenance  of  Martha  Croly. 


JOAN    OF    ARC. 


73 


I  shall  omit  the  apologies  and  congratulations  of  Caroline 
and  the  assurance  of  forgiveness  and  proffers  of  friendship 
of  Martha.  The  reader  must  also  excuse  me  from  delinea 
ting  the  joy  with  which  Martha  was  received  by  her  uncle 
and  aifnt  1C . ;  and  the  heartfelt  satisfaction  which  Esquire 
and  Mrs.  S.  expressed  in  their  son's  choice  of  a  wife.  It  is 
enough  to  state  that  all  parties  concerned  were  satisfied  and 
happy,  and  continue  so  to  the  present  time.  To  sum  up  the 
whole  they  are  happy  themselves,  and  diffuse  happiness  all 
around  them. 

Caroline  Lindsay  was  the  bearer  of  several  letters  from 
Martha,  now  Mrs.  S.,  to  her  friends  in  Lowell.  She  spent 
two  years  in  a  factory,  and  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  all  who 
knew  her ;  and  when  she  left  Lowell  her  friends  could  not 
avoid  grieving  for  the  loss  of  her  company,  although  they 
knew  that  a  bright  day  was  soon  to  dawn  upon  her.  She 
is  now  the  wife  of  George  K.,  and  is  beloved  and  respected 
by  all  who  know  her.  Well  may  she  say,  "  Sweet  are  the 
uses  of  adversity,"  for  adversity  awoke  to  energy  virtues 
which  were  dormant,  until  a  reverse  of  fortune.  Her  fath 
er's  affairs  are  in  a  measure  retrieved  ;  and  he  says  that  he 
is  doubly  compensated  for  his  loss  of  property  in  the  happi 
ness  he  now  enjoys. 

I  will  take  leave  of  the  reader,  hoping  that  if  he  has 
hitherto  had  any  undue  prejudice  against  labor,  or  laboring 
people,  he  will  overcome  it,  and  excuse  my  freedom  and 
plainness  of  speech.  ETHELINDA. 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

WHEN,  in  the  perusal  of  history,  I  meet  with  the  names 
of  females  whom  circumstances,  or  their  own  inclinations, 
have  brought  thus  openly  before  the  public  eye,  I  can  seldom 
repress  the  desire  to  know  more  of  them.  Was  it  choice, 
or  necessity,  which  led  them  to  the  battle-field,  or  council- 
hall  ?  Had  the  woman's  heart  been  crushed  within  their 
breasts?  or  did  it  struggle  with  the  sterner  feelings  which 
had  then  found  entrance  there?  W^ere  they  recreant  to 


74  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

their  own  sex?  or  were  the  deed  which  claim  the  historian's 
notice  but  the  necessary  results  of  the  situations  in  which 
they  had  been  placed  1 

These  are  questions  which  I  often  ask,  and  yet  I  love  not 
in  old  and  musty  records  to  meet  with  names  which  long  ere 
this  should  have  perished  with  the  hearts  upon  which  love 
had  written  them ;  for  happier,  surely,  is  wyoman,  when  in 
one  manly  heart  she  has  been  "  shrined  a  queen,"  than 
when  upon  some  powerful  throne  she  sits  with  an  untremb- 
ling  form,  and  an  unquailing  eye,  to  receive  the  homage, 
and  command  the  services  of  loyal  thousands.  I  love  not 
to  read  of  women  transformed  in  all,  save  outward  form, 
into  one  of  the  sterner  sex: ;.  and  when  I  see,  in  the  memori 
als  of  the  past,  that  this  has  apparently  been  done,  I  would 
fain  overleap  the  barriers  of  bygone  time,  and  know  how  it 
has  been  effected.  Imagination  goes  back  to  the  scenes 
which  must  have  been  witnessed  then,  and  perhaps  unaided 
portrays  the  minute  features  of  the  sketch,  of  which  history 
has  preserved  merely  the  outlines. 

But  I  sometimes  read  of  woman,  when  I  would  not  know 
more  of  the  places  where  she  has  rendered  herself  conspicu 
ous  ;  when  there  is  something  so  noble  and  so  bright  in  the 
character  I  have  given  her,  that  I  fear  a  better  knowledge  of 
trivial  incidents  might  break  the  spell  which  leads  me  to  love 
and  admire  her;  where,  perhaps,  the  picture  which  my  fan 
cy  has  painted,  glows  in  colors  so  brilliant,  that  a  sketch  by 
Trfllh  would  seem  beside  it  but  a  sombre  shadow. 

Joan  of  Arc  is  one  of  those  heroines  of  history,  who 
cannot  fail  to  excite  an  interest  in  all  who  love  to  con 
template  the  female  character.  From  the  gloom  of  that 
dark  age,  when  woman  was  but  a  plaything  and  a  slave,  she 
stands  in  bold  relief,  its  most  conspicuous  personage.  Not, 
indeed,  as  a  queen,  but  as  more  than  a  queen,  even  the  pre 
server  of  her  nation's  king  ;  not  as  a  conqueror,  but  as  the 
savior  of  her  country  ;  not  as  a  man,  urged  in  his  proud 
career  by  mad  ambition's  stirring  energies,  but  as  a  woman, 
guided  in  her  brilliant  course  by  woman's  noblest  impulses 
— so  does  she  appear  in  that  lofty  station  which  for  herself 
she  won. 

TUpugh  high  and  dazzling  was  the  eminence  to  which  si  e 
rose,  yet  "  'twas  not  thus,  oh  't  was  not  thus,  her  dwelling- 
place  was  found."  Low  in  the  vale  of  humble  life  was  the 
maiden  born  and  bred  ;  and  thick  as  is  the  veil  which  time 


JOAN    OF   ARC.  75 

and  distance  have  thrown  over  every  passage  of  her  life 
yet  that  which  rests  upon  her  early  days  is  most  impenetra 
ble.  And  much  room  is  there  here  for  the  interested  in 
quirer,  and  Imagination  may  rest  almost  unchecked  amid  the 
slight  revelations  of  History. 

Joan  is  a  heroine — a  woman  of  mighty  power — wearing 
herself  the  habiliments  of  man,  and  guiding  armies  to  battle 
and  to  victory  ;  yet  never  to  my  eye  is  "  the  warrior-maid  " 
aught  but  woman.  The  ruling  passion,  the  spirit  which 
nerved  her  arm,  illumed  her  eye,  and  buoyed  her  heart,  was 
woman's  faith.  Ay,  it  was  power — and  call  it  what  ye 
may — say  it  was  enthusiasm,  fanaticism,  madness — or  call 
it,  if  ye  will,  what  those  did  name  it  who  burned  Joan  at  the 
stake, — still  it  was  power,  the  power  of  woman's  firm,  un- 
doubting  faith. 

I  should  love  to  go  back  into  Joan's  humble  home — that 
home  which  the  historian  has  thought  so  little  worthy  of  his. 
notice  ;  and  in  imagination  I  must  go  there,  even  to  the  very 
cradle  of  her  infancy,  and  know  of  all  those  influences  which, 
wrought  the  mind  of  Joan  to  that  fearful  pitch  of  wild 
enthusiasm,  when  she  declared  herself  the  inspired  agent  of. 
the  Almighty. 

Slowly  and  gradually  was  the  spirit  trained  to  an  act  like 
this  ;  for  though,  like  the  volcano's  fire,  its  instantaneous 
bursting  forth  was  preceded  by  no  prophet-herald  of  its 
coining — yet  Joan  of  Arc  was  the  same  Joan  ere  she  was 
maid  of  Orleans;  the  same  high-souled,  pure  and  imagipa- 
tive  being,  the  creature  of  holy  impulses,  and  conscious  of 
superior  energies.  It  must  have  been  so  ;  a  superior  mind 
may  burst  upon  the  world,  but  never  ifpon  itself:  there  must 
be  a  feeling  of  sympathy  with  the  noble  and  the  gifted,  a 
knowledge  of  innate  though  slumbering  powers.  The 
neglected  eaglet  may  lie  in  its  mountain  nest,  long  after  the 
pinion  is  fledged  ;  but  it  will  fix  it  unquailing  eye  upon  the 
dazzling  sun,  and  feel  a  consciousness  of  strength  in  the 
untried  wing  ;  but  let  the  mother-bird  once  call  it  forth,  and 
far  away  it  will  soar  into  the  deep  blue  heavens,  or  bathe 
and  revel  amidst  the  tempest-clouds — and  henceforth  the 
eyrie  is  but  a  resting  place. 

As  the  diamond  is  formed,  brilliant  and  priceless,  in  the 
dark  bowels  of  the  earth,  even  so,  in  the  gloom  of  poverty, 
obscurity,  and  toil,  was  formed  the  mind  of  Joan  of  Arc. — 
Circumstances  were  but  the  jeweller's  cutting,  which  placed 


76  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

it  where  it  might  more  readily  receive  the  rays  of  light,  and 
flash  them  forth  with  greater  brilliancy. 

I  have  said,  that  I  must  in  imagination  go  back  to  the 
infancy  of  Joan,  and  note  the  incidents  which  shed  their 
silent,  hallowed  influence  upon  her  soul,  until  she  stands 
forth  an  inspired  being,  albeit  inspired  by  naught  but  her 
own  imagination. 

The  basis  of  Joan's  character  is  religious  enthusiasm  : 
this  is  the  subtratum,  the  foundation  of  all  that  wild  and 
mighty  power  which  made  her,  the  peasant  girl,  the  savior 
of  her  country.  But  the  flame  must  have  been  early  fed  ; 
it  was  not  merely  an  elementary  portion  of  her  nature,  but 
it  was  one  which  was  cherished  in  infancy,  in  childhood 
and  in  youth,  until  it  became  the  master-passion  of  her 
being. 

Joan,  the  child  of  the  humble  and  the  lowly,  was  also 
the  daughter  of  the  fervently  religious.  The  light  of  faith 
and  hope  illumes  their  little  cot ;  and  reverence  for  all  that 
is  good  and  true,  and  a  trust  which  admits  no  shade  of  fear 
or  doubt,  is  early  taught  the  gentle  child.  Though  "  faith 
in  God's  own  promises  "  was  mingled  with  superstitious  awe 
of  those  to  whom  all  were  then  indebted  for  a  knowledge  of 
the  truth  ;  though  priestly  craft  had  united  the  wild  and 
false  with  the  pure  light  of  the  gospel :  and  though  Joan's 
religion  was  mingled  with  delusion  and  error, — still  it  com 
prised  all  that  is  fervent,  and  pure,  and  truthful,  in  the 
female  heart.  The  first  words  her  infant  lips  are  taught  to 
utter,  are  those  of  prayer — prayer,  mayhap,  to  saints  or  vir 
gin  ;  but  still  to  her  then  and  in  all  after-time,  the  aspi 
rations  of  a  spirit  which  delights  in  communion  with  the  In 
visible. 

She  grows  older,  and  still,  amid  ignorance,  and  poverty, 
and  toil,  the  spirit  gains  new  light  and  fervor.  With  a  mind 
alive  to  everything  that  is  high  and  holy,  she  goes  forth  into 
a  dark  and  sinful  world,  dependent  upon  her  daily  toil  for 
daily  bread  ;  she  lives  among  the  thoughtless  and  the  vile  ; 
but  like  that  plant  which  opens  to  nought  but  light  and  air, 
and  shrinks  from  all  other  contact — so  her  mind,  amid  the 
corruptions  of  the  world,  is  shut  to  all  that  is  base  and 
sinful,  though  open  and  sensitive  to  that  which  is  pure  and 
noble. 

"  Joan,"  says  the  historian,  "  was  a  tender  of  stables  in 
a  village  inn."  Such  was  her  outward  life  ;  but  there  was 


JOAN    OF    ARC.  77 

for  her  another  life,  a  life  within  that  life.  While  the  hands 
perform  low,  menial  service,  the  soul  untrammelled  is  away, 
and  revelling  amidst  its  own  creations  of  beauty  and  of  bliss. 
She  is  silent  and  abstracted ;  always  alone  among  her 
fellows — for  among  them  all  she  sees  no  kindred  spirit ;  she 
finds  none  who  can  touch  the  chords  within  her  heart,  or 
respond  to  their  melody,  when  she  would  herself  sweep  its 
harp-strings. 

Joan  has  no  friends  ;  far  less  does  she  ever  think  of  earth 
ly  lovers  ;  and  who  would  love  her,  the  wild  and  strange 
Joan  !  though  perhaps,  the  gloomy,  dull,  and  silent  one  ; 
but  that  soul,  whose  very  essence  is  fervent  zeal  and  glow 
ing  passion,  sends  forth  in  secresy  and  silence  its  burning 
love  upon  the  unconscious  things  of  earth.  She  talks  to 
the  flowers,  and  the  stars,  and  the  changing  clouds  ;  and 
their  voiceless  answers  come  back  to  her  soul  at  morn,  and 
noon,  and  stilly  night.  Yes,  Joan  loves  to  go  forth  in  the 
darkness  of  eve,  and  sit, 

"  Beneath  the  radiant  stars,  still  burning  as  they  roll, 
Aad  sending  down  their  prophecies  into  her  fervent  soul ; 

but,  better  even  than  this,  does  she  love  to  go  into  some 
high  cathedral,  where  the  "dim  religious  light"  comes 
faintly  through  the  painted  windows  ;  and  when  the  priests 
chant  vesper  hymns,  and  burning  incense  goes  upward  from 
the  sacred  altar — and  when  the  solemn  strains  and  the 
fragrant  vapor  dissolve  and  die  away  in  the  distant  aisles 
and  lofty  dome,  she  kneels  upon  the  marble  floor,  and  in 
ecstatic  "worship  sends  forth  the  tribute  of  a  glowing  heart. 

And  when  at  night  she  lies  down  upon  her  rude  pallet, 
she  dreams  that  she  is  with  those  bright  and  happy  beings 
with  whom  her  fancy  has  peopled  heaven.  She  is  there, 
among  saints  and  angels,  and  even  permitted  high  converse 
with  the  Mother  of  Jesus. 

Yes,  Joan  is  a  dreamer  ;  and  she  dreams  not  only  in  the 
night,  but  in  the  day  ;  whether  at  work  or  at  rest,  alone  or 
among  her  fellow-men,  there  are  angel  voices  near,  and 
spirit-wings  are  hovering  around  her,  and  visions  of  all  that 
is  pure,  and  bright,  and  beautiful,  come  to  the  mind  of  the 
lowly  girl.  She  finds  that  she  is  a  favored  one  ;  she  feels 
that  those  about  her  are  not  gifted  as  she  has  been  ;  she 
knows  that  their  thoughts  are  not  as  her  thoughts  ;  and  then 
7 


78  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

Ihe  spirit  questions,  Why  is  it  thus  that  she  should  be  per 
mitted  communings  with  unearthly  ones?  Why  was  this 
ardent,  aspiring  mind  bestowed  upon  her,  one  of  earth's 
•neanest  ones,  shackled  by  bonds  of  penury,  toil,  and  ignor 
ance  of  all  that  the  world  calls  high  and  gifted  1  Day  after 
day  goes  by,  night  after  night  wears  on,  and  still  these 
queries  will  arise,  and  still  they  are  unanswered. 

At  length  the  affairs  of  busy  life,  those  which  to  Joan 
have  heretofore  been  of  but  little  moment,  begin  to  awaken 
even  her  interest.  Hitherto,  absorbed  in  her  own  bright 
fancies,  she  has  mingled  in  the  scenes  around  her,  like  one 
who  walketh  in  his  sleep.  They  have  been  too  tame  and 
insipid  to  arouse  her  energies,  or  excite  her  interest  ;  but 
now  there  is  a  thrilling  power  in  the  tidings  which  daily 
meet  her  ears.  All  hearts  are  stirred,  but  none  now  throb 
like  hers :  her  country  is  invaded,  her  king  an  exile  from  his 
throne  ;  and  at  length  the  conquerors,  unopposed,  are  quiet 
ly  boasting  of  their  triumphs  on  the  very  soil  they  have 
polluted.  And  shall  it  be  thus  ?  Shall  the  victor  revel  and 
triumph  in  her  own  loved  France?  Shall  her  country  thus 
Tamely  submit  to  wear  the  foreign  yoke  ?  And  Joan  says, 
No !  She  feels  the  power  to  arouse,  to  quicken,  and  to 
guide. 

None  now  may  tell  whether  it  was  first  in  fancies  of  the 
day  or  visions  of  the  night,  that  the  thought  came,  like 
some  lightning  flash,  upon  her  mind,  that  it  was  for  this 
that  powers  unknown  to  others  had  been  vouchsafed  to  her ; 
and  that  for  this,  even  new  energies  should  now  be  given. — 
But  the  idea  once  received  is  not  abandoned  ;  she  cherishes 
it,  and  broods  upon  it,  till  it  has  mingled  with  every  thought 
of  day  and  night.  If  doubts  at  first  arise,  they  are  not 
harbored,  and  at  length  they  vanish  away. 

"  Her  spirit  shadowed  forth  a  dream,  till  it  became  a  creed." 

All  that  she  sees  and  all  that  she  hears — the  words  to  which 
she  eagerly  listens  by  day,  and  the  spirit- whispers  which 
come  to  her  at  night, — they  all  assure  her  of  this,  that  she 
is  the  appointed  one.  All  other  thoughts  and  feelings  now 
crystallize  in  this  grand  scheme  ;  and  as  the  cloud  grows 
darker  upon  her  country's  sky,  her  faith  grows  surer  and 
more  bright.  Her  countrymen  have  ceased  to  resist,  have 
almost  ceased  to  hope  ;  but  she  alone,  in  her  fervent  joy,  has 


JOAN    OF    ARC.  79 

"  looked  beyond  the  present  clouds  and  seen  the  light  he- 
yond."  The  spoiler  shall  yet  be  vanquished,  and  she  will  do 
it  ;  her  country  shall  be  saved,  and  she  will  save  it ;  her 
unanointed  king  shall  yet  sit  on  the  throne,  and  "Charles 
shall  be  crowned  at  Rheims."  Such  is  her  mission,  and 
she  goes  forth  in  her  own  ardent  faith  to  its  accomplish 
ment. 

And  did  those  who  first  admitted  the  claims  of  Joan  as  an 
inspired  leader,  themselves  believe  that  she  was  an  agent  of 
the  Almighty?  None  can  now  tell  how  much  the  supersti 
tion  of  their  faith,  mingled  with  the  commanding  influence 
of  a  mind  firm  in  its  own  conviction  of  supernatural  guid 
ance,  influenced  those  haughty  ones,  as  they  listened  to  the 
counsels,  and  obeyed  the  mandates,  of  the  peasant  girl. — 
Perhaps  they  saw  that  she  was  their  last  hope,  a  frail  reed 
upon  which  they  might  lean,  yet  one  that  might  not  break. 
Her  zeal  and  faith  might  be  an  instrument  to  effect  the  end 
which  she  had  declared  herself  destined  to  accomplish. 
Worldly  policy  and  religious  credulity  might  mingle  in  their 
admission  of  her  claims ;  but  however  this  might  be,  the 
peasant  girl  of  Arc  soon  rides  at  her  monarch's  side,  with 
helmet  on  her  head,  and  armor  on  her  frame,  the  time- 
hallowed  sword  girt  to  her  side,  and  the  consecrated  banner 
in  her  hand  ;  and  with  the  lightning  of  inspiration  in  her 
eye,  and  words  of  dauntless  courage  on  her  lips,  she  guides 
them  on  to  battle  and  to  victory. 

Ay,  there  she  is,  the  low-born  maid  of  Arc  !  there,  with 
the  noble  and  the  brave,  amid  the  clangor  of  trumpets,  the 
waving  of  banners,  the  tramp  of  the  war  horse,  and  the 
shouts  of  warriors  ;  and  there  she  is  more  at  home  than  in 
those  humble  scenes  in  which  she  has  been  wont  to  bear  a 
part.  Now  for  once  she  is  herself;  now  may  she  put  forth 
all  her  hidden  energy,  and  with  a  mind  which  rises  at  each 
new  demand  upon  its  powers,  she  is  gaining  for  herself  a 
name  even  greater  than  that  of  queen.  And  now  does  the 
light  beam  brightly  from  her  eye,  and  the  blood  course 
quickly  through  her  veins — for  her  task  is  ended,  her  mission 
accomplished,  and  "  Charles  is  crowned  at  Rheims." 

This  is  the  moment  of  Joan's  glory, — and  what  is  before 
her  now  ?  To  stand  in  courts,  a  favored  and  flattered  one  ? 
to  revel  in  the  soft  luxuries  and  enervating  pleasures  of  a 
princely  life  ?  Oh  this  was  not  for  one  like  her.  To  return 
to  obscurity  and  loneliness,  and  there  to  let  the  over-wrought 


80  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

mind  sink  back  with  nought  to  occupy  and  support  it,  till  it 
feeds  and  drivels  on  the  remembrance  of  the  past — this  is 
what  she  would  do  ;  but  there  is  for  her  what  is  better  far, 
even  the  glorious  death  of  a  martyr. 

Little  does  Joan  deem,  in  her  moment  of  triumph,  that 
this  is  before  her  ;  but  wThen  she  has  seen  her  mission  ended, 
and  her  king  the  anointed  ruler  of  a  liberated  people,  the 
sacred  sword  and  standard  are  cast  aside  ;  and  throwing 
herself  at  her  monarch's  feet,  and  watering  them  with  tears 
of  joy,  she  begs  permission  to  return  to  her  humble  home. — 
She  has  now  done  all  for  which  that  power  was  bestowed  ; 
her  work  has  been  accomplished,  and  she  claims  no  longer 
the  special  commission  of  an  inspired  leader.  But  Dunois 
says,  No  !  The  English  are  not  yet  entirely  expelled  the 
kingdom,  and  the  French  general  would  avail  himself  of 
that  name,  and  that  presence,  which  have  infused  new 
courage  into  his  armies,  and  struck  terror  to  their  enemies. 
He  knows  that  Joan  will  no  longer  be  sustained  by  the 
belief  that  she  is  an  agent  of  heaven  ;  but  she  will  be  with 
them,  and  that  alone  must  benefit  their  cause.  He  would 
have  her  again  assume  the  standard,  sword,  and  armor  ;  he 
would  have  her  still  retain  the  title  of  "  Messenger  of 
God,"  though  she  believe  that  her  mission  goes  no  farther. 

It  probably  was  not  the  first  time,  and  it  certainly  wras  not 
the  last,  when  woman's  holiest  feelings  have  been  made  the 
instruments  of  man's  ambition,  or  agents  for  the  completion 
of  his  designs.  Joan  is  now  but  a  woman,  poor,  weak,  and 
yielding  woman  ;  and  overpowered  by  their  entreaties,  she 
consents  to  try  again  her  influence.  But  the  power  of  that 
faith  is  gone,  the  light  of  inspiration  is  no  more  given,  and 
she  is  attacked,  conquered,  and  delivered  to  her  enemies. 
They  place  her  in  low  dungeons,  then  bring  her  before  tri 
bunals  ;  they  wring  and  torture  that  noble  spirit,  and  en 
deavor  to  obtain  from  it  a  confession  of  imposture,  or 
connivance  with  the  "  evil  one  ;  "  but  she  still  persists  in 
the  declaration  that  her  claims  to  a  heavenly  guidance  were 
true. 

Once  only  was  she  false  to  herself.  Weary  and  dispirit 
ed  ;  deserted  by  her  friends,  and  tormented  by  her  foes, — 
she  yields  to  their  assertions,  and  admits  that  she  did  deceive 
her  countrymen.  Perhaps  in  that  hour  of  trial  and  dark 
ness,  when  all  hope  of  deliverance  from  without,  or  from 
above,  had  died  away, — when  she  saw  herself  powerless  in 


SUSAN'    MILLER.  81 

the  merciless  hands  of  her  enemies,  the  conviction  might 
steal  upon  her  own  mind,  that  she  had  been  self-ucroivcd  ; 
that  phantasies  of  the  brain  had  been  received  as  visions 
from  on  high, — but  though  her  confession  was  true  in  the 
abstract,  yet  Joan  was  surely  untrue  to  herself. 

Still  it  avails  her  little  ;  she  is  again  remanded  to  the 
dnngeon,  and  there  awaits  her  doom. 

At  length  they  bring  her  the  panoply  of  war,  the  armored 
suit  in  which  she  went  forth  at  the  king's  right  hand  to  fight 
their  battle  hosts.  Her  heart  thrills,  and  her  eye  flashes,  as 
she  looks  upon  it — for  it  tells  of  glorious  days.  Once  more 
she  dons  those  fatal  garments,  and  they  find  her  arrayed  in 
the  habiliments  of  war.  It  is  enough  for  those  who  wished 
but  an  excuse  to  take  her  life,  and  the  Maid  of  Orleans  is 
condemned  to  die. 

They  led  Joan  to  the  martyr-stake.  Proudly  and  nobly 
went  she  forth,  for  it  was  a  fitting  death  for  one  like  hi  i\ 
Once  more  the  spirit  may  rouse  its  noblest  energies  ;  and 
with  brightened  eye,  and  firm,  undaunted  step,  she  goes 
where  banners  wave  and  trumpets  sound,  and  martial  hosts 
appear  in  proud  array.  And  the  sons  of  England  weep  as 
they  see  her,  the  calm  and  tearless  one,  come  forth  to  meet 
her  fate.  They  bind  her  to  the  stake  ;  they  light  the  fire  ; 
and  upward  borne  on  wreaths  of  soaring  flame,  the  soul  of 
the  martyred  Joan  ascends  to  heaven.  ELLA. 


SUSAN  mLL*ER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  MOTHER,  it  is  all  over  now,"  said  Susan  Miller,  as  she 
descended  from  the  chamber  where  her  father  had  just  died 
of  delirium  tremens. 

Mrs.  Miller  had  for  several  hours  walked  the  house,  'with 
that  ceaseless  step  which  tells  of  fearful  mental  agony  :  and 
when  she  had  heard  from  her  husband's  room  some  louder 
shriek  or  groan,  she  had  knelt  by  the  chair  or  bed  which 
was  nearest,  aud  prayed  that  the  troubled  spirit  might  pats 
away.  But  a  faintness  came  over  her,  when  a  long  intqrval 


82  MIND    AMONGST    THE  SPINDLES. 

of  stillness  told  that  her  prayer  was  answered  ;  and  she 
leaned  upon  the  railing  of  the  stairway  for  support,  as  she 
looked  up  to  see  the  first  one  who  should  come  to  her  from 
the  bed  of  death. 

Susan  was  the  first  to  think  of  her  mother  :  and  when  she 
saw  her  sink,  pale,  breathless,  and  stupified  upon  a  stair,  she 
sat  down  in  silence,  and  supported  her  head  upon  her  own 
bosom.  Then  for  the  first  time  was  she  aroused  to  the  con 
sciousness  that  she  was  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  stay  and 
support ;  and  she  resolved  to  bring  from  the  hidden  recesses 
of  her  heart,  a  strength,  courage,  and  firmness,  which 
should  make  her  to  her  heart-broken  mother,  and  younger 
brothers  and  sisters,  what  he  had  not  been  for  many  years, 
who  was  now  a  stiffening  corpse. 

At  length  she  ventured  to  whisper  words  of  solace  and 
sympathy,  and  succeeded  in  infusing  into  her  mother's  mind 
a  feeling  of  resignation  to  the  stroke  they  had  received. — 
She  persuaded  her  to  retire  to  her  bed,  and  seek  the  slumber 
which  had  been  for  several  days  denied  them  ;  and  then  she 
endeavored  to  calm  the  terror-stricken  little  ones,  who  were 
screaming  because  their  father  was  no  more.  The  neighbors 
came  in  and  proffered  every  assistance  ;  but  when  Susan 
retired  that  night  to  her  own  chamber,  she  felt  that  she 
must  look  to  HIM  for  aid,  who  alone  could  sustain  through 
the  tasks  that  awaited  her. 

Preparations  were  made  for  the  funeral ;  and  though 
every  one  knew  that  Mr.  Miller  had  left  his  farm  deeply 
mortgaged,  yet  the  store-keeper  cheerfully  trusted  them  for 
articles  of  mourning,  and  the  dress-maker  worked  day  and 
night,  while  she  expected  never  to  receive  a  remuneration. 
The  minister  came  to  comfort  the  widow  and  her  children. 
He  spoke  of  the  former  virtues  of  him  who  had  been 
wont  to  seek  the  house  of  God  on  each  returning  Sabbath, 
and  who  had  brought  his  eldest  children  to  the  font  of 
baptism,  and  been  then  regarded  as  an  example  of  honesty 
and  sterling  worth ;  and  when  he  adverted  to  the  one  failing 
which  had  brought  him  to  his  grave  in  the  very  prime  of 
manhood,  he  also  remarked,  that  he  was  now  in  the  hands 
of  a  merciful  God. 

The  remains  of  the  husband  and  father  were  at  length 
removed  from  the  home  which  he  had  once  rendered  happy, 
but  upon  which  he  had  afterwards  brought  poverty  and 
distress,  and  laid  in  that  narrow  house  which  he  never  more 


SUSAN    MILLER.  83 

might  leave,  till  the  last  trumpet  should  call  him  forth  ;  and 
when  the  family  were  left  to  that  deep  silence  and  gloom 
which  always  succeed  a  death  and  hurial,  they  began  to 
think  of  the  trials  which  were  yet  to  come. 

Mrs.  Miller  had  been  for  several  years  aware  that  ruin 
was  coming  upon  them.  She  had  at  first  warned,  reasoned, 
and  expostulated  ;  but  she  was  naturally  of  a  gentle  and 
almost  timid  disposition  ;  and  when  she  found  that  she 
awakened  passions  which  were  daily  growing  more  violent 
and  ungovernable,  she  resolved  to  await  in  silence  a  crisis 
which  sooner  or  later  would  change  their  destiny.  Wheth 
er  she  was  to  follow  her  degenerate  husband  to  his  grave,  or 
accompany  him  to  some  low  hovel,  she  knew  not;  she 
shrunk  from  the  future,  but  faithfully  discharged  all  present 
duties,  and  endeavored,  by  a  strict  economy,  to  retain  at 
least  an  appearance  of  comfort  in  her  household. 

To  Susan,  her  eldest  child,  she  had  confided  all  her  fears 
and  sorrows  ;  and  they  had  watched,  toiled,  and  sympathized 
together.  But  when  the  blow  came  at  last,  when  he  who 
had  caused  all  their  sorrow  and  anxiety  was  taken  away  by 
a  dreadful  and  disgraceful  death,  the  long-enduring  wife  and 
mother  was  almost  paralyzed  by  the  shock. 

But  Susan  was  young  ;  she  had  health,  strength,  and 
spirits  to  bear  her  up,  and  upon  her  devolved  the  care  of 
the  family,  and  the  plan  for  its  future  support.  Her  resolu 
tion  was  soon  formed  ;  and  without  saying  a  word  to  any 
individual,  she  went  to  Deacon  Rand,  who  was  her  father's 
principal  creditor. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon  in  the  month  of  May,  when 
Susan  left  the  house  in  which  her  life  had  hitherto  been 
spent,  determined  to  know,  before  she  returned  to  it,  wheth 
er  she  might  ever  again  look  upon  it  as  her  home.  It  was 
nearly  a  mile  to  the  deacon's  house,  and  not  a  single  house 
upon  the  way.  The  two  lines  of  turf  in  the  road,  upon 
which  the  bright  green  grass  was  springing,  showed  that  it 
was  but  seldom  travelled  ;  and  the  birds  warbled  in  the 
trees,  as  though  they  feared  no  disturbance.  The  fragrance 
of  the  lowly  flowers,  the  budding  shrubs,  and  the  blooming 
fruit-trees,  filled  the  air  ;  and  she  stood  for  a  moment  to 
listen  to  the  streamlet  which  she  crossed  upon  a  rude  bridge 
of  stones.  She  remembered  how  she  had  loved  to  look  at  it 
in  summer,  as  it  murmured  along  among  the  low  willows 
and  alder  bushes  ;  and  how  she  had  watched  it  in  the  early 


84  MIND     AMONGST     THE    SPINDLES. 

spring,  when  its  s woollen  waters  forced  their  way  through 
the  drifts  of  snow  which  had  frozen  over  it,  and  wrought  for 
itself  an  arched  roof,  from  which  the  little  icicles  depended 
in  diamond  points  and  rows  of  beaded  pearls.  She  looked 
also  at  the  meadow,  where  the  grass  was  already  so  long 
and  green  ;  and  she  sighed  to  think  that  she  must  leave  all 
that  was  so  dear  to  her,  and  go  where  a  ramble  among 
fields,  meadows,  and  orchards,  \vould  be  henceforth  a 
pleasure  denied  to  her. 


CHAPTER    II. 

WHEN  she  arrived  at  the  spacious  farm-house,  which  was 
the  residence  of  the  deacon,  she  was  rejoiced  to  find  him  at 
home  and  alone.  He  laid  aside  his  newspaper  as  she  enter 
ed,  and,  kindly  taking  her  hand,  inquired  after  her  own 
health  and  that  of  her  friends.  "  And  now,  deacon,"  said 
she,  when  she  had  answered  all  his  questions,  "  I  wish  to 
know  whether  you  intend  to  turn  us  all  out  of  doors,  as  you 
have  a  perfect  right  to  do — or  suffer  us  still  to  remain,  with 
a  slight  hope  that  we  may  sometime  pay  you  the  debt  for 
which  our  farm  is  mortgaged." 

"  You  have  asked  me  a  very  plain  question,"  was  the 
deacon's  reply,  "  and  one  which  I  can  easily  answer.  You 
see  that  I  have  here  a  house,  large  enough  and  good  enough 
for  the  president  himself,  and  plenty  of  every  thing  in  it  and 
around  it  ;  and  how  in  the  name  of  common  sense  and  char 
ity,  and  religion,  could  I  turn  a  widow  and  fatherless 
children  out  of  their  house  and  home  !  Folks  have  called 
me  mean,  and  stingy,  and  close-fisted;  and  though  in  my 
dealings  with  a  rich  man  I  take  good  care  that  he  shall  not 
overreach  me,  yet  I  never  stood  for  a  cent  with  a  poor  man 
in  my  life.  13 ut  you  spake  about  some  time  paying  me  ; 
pray,  how  do  you  hope  to  do  it?  " 

"  lam  going  to  Lowell,"  said  Susan  quietly,  "  to  work  in 
the  factory,  the  girls  have  high  wages  there  now,  and  in  a 
year  or  two  Lydia  and  Eliza  can  come  too  ;  and  if  we  all  have 
our  health,  and  mother  and  James  get  along  well  with  the 
farm  and  the  little  ones,  I  hope,  I  do  think,  that  we  can  pay 
it  all  up  in  the  course  of  seven  or  eight  years." 

"  That  is  a  long  time  fur  you  to  go  and  work  so  hard,  and 


SUSAN     MILLER.  85 

shut  yourself  up  so  close  at  your  time  of  life,"  said  the 
deacon,  "  and  on  many  other  accounts  I  do  not  approve  of 
it." 

'*  I  know  how  prejudiced  the  people  here  are  against 
factory  girls,"  said  Susan,  "  but  I  should  like  to  know  what 
real  good  reason  you  have  for  disapproving  of  my  resolution. 
You  cannot  think  there  is  anything  really  wrong  in  my  de 
termination  to  labor,  as  steadily  and  as  profitably  as  I  can, 
for  myself  and  the  family." 

"  Why,  the  way  that  I  look  at  things  is  this,"  replied  the 
deacon:  "whatever  is  not  right,  is  certainly  wrong  ;  and 
I  do  not  think  it  right  for  a  young  girl  like  you,  to  put  her 
self  in  the  way  of  all  sorts  of  temptation.  You  have  no  idea 
of  the  wickedness  and  corruption  which  exist  in  that  town  of 
Lowell.  Why,  they  say  that  more  than  half  of  the  girls 
have  been  in  the  house  of  correction,  or  the  county  goal,  or 
some  other  vile  place  ;  and  that  the  other  half  are  not  much 
better  ;  and  I  should  not  think  you  would  wish  to  go  and 
work,  and  eat,  and  sleep,  with  such  a  low,  mean,  ignorant, 
wicked  set  of  creatures." 

"  I  know  such  things  are  said  of  them,  deacon,  but  I  do 
not  think  they  are  true.  I  have  never  seen  but  one  factory 
girl,  and  that  was  my  cousin  Esther,  who  visited  us  last 
summer.  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  better  girl  in  the  world 
than  she  is ;  and  I  cannot  think  she  would  be  so  contented 
and  cheerful  among  such  a  set  of  wretches  as  some  folks 
think  factory  girls  must  be.  There  may  be  wicked  girls 
there  ;  but  among  so  many,  there  must  be  some  who  are 
good  ;  and  when  I  go  there,  I  shall  try  to  keep  out  of  the 
way  of  bad  company,  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  cousin  Esther 
can  introduce  me  to  girls  who  are  as  good  as  any  with  whom 
I  have  associated.  If  she  cannot  I  will  have  no  companion 
but  her,  and  spend  the  little  leisure  I  shall  have  in  solitude, 
for  I  am  determined  to  go." 

"  But  supposing,  Susan,  that  all  the  girls  there  were  as 
good,  and  sensible,  and  pleasant  as  yourself — yet  there  are 
many  oilier  things  to  be  considered.  You  have  not  thought 
how  hard  it  will  seem  to  be  boxed  up  fourteen  hours  in  a 
day,  among  a  parcel  of  clattering  looms,  or  whirling 
spindles,  whose  constant  din  is  of  itself  enough  to  drive  a 
girl  out  of  her  wits  ;  and  then  you  will  have  no  fresh  air  to 
breathe,  and  as  likely  as  not  come  home  in  a  year  or  two 
with  a  consumption,  and  wishing  you  had  staid  where  you 


86  MIND    AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 

would  have  had  less  money  and  better  health.  I  have  also 
heard  that  the  boarding  women  do  not  give  the  girls  food 
which  is  fit  to  eat,  nor  half  enough  of  the  mean  stuff  they  do 
allow  them,  and  it  is  contrary  to  all  reason  to  suppose  that 
folks  can  work,  and  have  their  health,  without  victuals  to 
eat." 

"  I  have  thought  of  all  these  things,  deacon,  but  they  do  not 
move  me.  I  know  the  noise  of  the  mills  must  be  unpleasant 
at  first,  but  I  shall  get  used  to  that ;  and  as  to  my  health,  I 
know  that  I  have  as  good  a  constitution  to  begin  with  as 
any  girl  could  wish,  and  no  predisposition  to  consumption, 
nor  any  of  those  diseases  which  a  factory  life  might  other 
wise  bring  upon  me.  I  do  not  expect  all  the  comforts  which 
are  common  to  country  farmers ;  but  I  am  not  afraid  of 
starving,  for  cousin  Esther  said,  that  she  had  an  excellent 
boarding  place,  and  plenty  to  eat,  and  drink,  and  that  which 
was  good  enough  for  anybody.  But  if  they  do  not  give  us 
good  meat,  I  will  eat  vegetables  alone,  and  when  we  have 
bad  butter,  I  will  eat  my  bread  without  it." 

"  Well,"  said  the  deacon,  "  if  your  health  is  preserved, 
you  may  lose  some  of  your  limbs.  I  have  heard  a  great 
many  stories  about  girls  who  had  their  hands  torn  off  by 
the  machinery,  or  mangled  so  that  they  could  never  use 
them  again  ;  and  a  hand  is  not  a  thing  to  be  despised,  nor 
easily  dispensed  with.  And  then,  how  should  you  like  to 
be  ordered  about,  and  scolded  at,  by  a  cross  overseer  ?  " 

"  I  know  there  is  danger,"  replied  Susan,  "  among  so 
much  machinery,  but  those  who  meet  with  accidents  are 
but  a  small  number,  in  proportion  to  the  whole,  and  if  I  am 
careful  I  need  not  fear  any  injury.  I  do  not  believe  the 
stories  we  hear  about  bad  overseers,  for  such  men  would  not 
be  placed  over  so  many  girls  ;  and  if  I  have  a  cross  one,  I 
will  give  no  reason  to  find  fault ;  and  if  he  finds  fault  with 
out  reason,  I  will  leave  him,  and  work  for  some  one  else. — 
You  know  that  I  must  do  something,  and  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  what  it  shall  be." 

"  You  are  a  good  child,  Susan,"  and  the  deacon  looked 
very  kind  when" he  told  her  so,  "  and  you  are  a  courageous, 
noble-minded  girl.  I  am  not  afraid  that  you  will  learn  to 
steal,  and  lie,  and  swear,  and  neglect  your  Bible  and  the 
meeting-house  ;  but  lest  anything  unpleasant  should  hap 
pen,  I  will  make  you  this  offer  :  I  will  let  your  mother  live 
upon  the  farm,  and  pay  me  what  little  she  can,  till  your 


SUSAN     MILLER.  87 

brother  James  is  old  enough  to  take  it  at  the  halves  ;  and  if 
you  will  come  here,  and  help  my  wife  about  the  house  and 
dairy,  I  will  give  you  45.  6d.  a-week,  and  you  shall  be 
treated  as  a  daughter — perhaps  you  may  one  day  be  one." 

The  deacon  looked  rather  sly  at  her,  and  Susan  blushed  ; 
for  Henry  Rand,  the  deacon's  youngest  son,  had  been  her 
playmate  in  childhood,  her  friend  at  school,  and  her  constant 
attendant  at  all  the  parties  and  evening  meetings.  Her 
young  friends  all  spoke  of  him  as  her  lover,  and  even  the 
old  people  had  talked  of  it  as  a  very  fitting  match,  as  Susan, 
besides  good  sense,  good  humor,  and  some  beauty,  had  the 
health,  strength  and  activity  which  are  always  reckoned 
among  the  qualifications  for  a  farmer's  wife. 

Susan  knew  of  this ;  but  of  late,  domestic  trouble  had 
kept  her  at  home,  and  she  knew  not  what  his  present  feel 
ings  were.  Still  she  felt  that  they  must  not  influence  her 
plans  and  resolutions.  Delicacy  forbade  that  she  should 
come  and  be  an  inmate  of  his  father's  house,  and  her  very 
affection  for  him  had  prompted  the  desire  that  she  should  be 
as  independent  as  possible  of  all  favors  from  him,  or  his 
father  ;  and  also  the  earnest  desire  that  they  might  one  day 
clear  themselves  of  debt.  So  she  thanked  the  deacon  for 
his  offer,  but  declined  accepting  it,  and  arose  to  take  leave. 

"  I  shall  think  a  great  deal  about  you,  when  you  are 
gone,"  said  the  deacon,  "  and  will  pray  for  you,  too.  I 
never  used  to  think  about  the  sailors,  till  my  wife's  brother 
visited  us,  who  had  led  for  many  years  a  sea-faring  life  ; 
and  now  I  always  pray  for  those  who  are  exposed  to  the 
dangers  of  the  great  deep.  And  I  will  also  pray  for  the 
poor  factory  girls  who  work  so  hard  and  suffer  so  much." 

"  Pray  for  me,  deacon,"  replied  Susan  in  a  faltering 
voice,  "  that  I  may  have  strength  to  keep  a  good  resolu 
tion." 

She  left  the  house  with  a  sad  heart ;  for  the  very  success 
of  her  hopes  and  wishes  had  brought  more  vividly  to  mind 
the  feeling  that  she  was  really  to  go  and  leave  for  many 
years  her  friends  and  home. 

She  was  almost  glad  that  she  had  not  seen  Henry  ;  and 
while  she  was  wondering  what  he  would  say  and  think, 
when  told  that  she  was  going  to  Lowell,  she  heard  ap 
proaching  footsteps,  and  looking  up,  saw  him  coming  to 
wards  her.  The  thought — no,  the  idea,  for  it  had  not  time 
to  form  into  a  definite  thought — flashed  across  her  mind, 


88  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

that  she  must  now  arouse  all  her  firmness,  and  not  let  Hen 
ry's  persuasion  shake  her  resolution  to  leave  them  all,  and 
go  to  the  factory. 

But  the  very  indifference  with  which  he  heard  of  her  in 
tention  was  of  itself  sufficient  to  arouse  her  energy.  He  ap 
peared  surprised,  hut  otherwise  wholly  unconcerned,  though 
he  expressed  a  hope  that  she  would  he  happy  and  prosper 
ous,  and  that  her  health  would  not  suffer  from  the  change 
of  occupation. 

If  he  had  told  her  that  he  loved  her — if  he  had  entreated 
her  not  to  leave  them,  or  to  go  with  the  promise  of  return 
ing  to  be  his  future  companion  through  life — she  could  have 
resisted  it ;  for  this  she  had  resolved  to  do ;  and  the  happi 
ness  attending  an  act  of  self-sacrifice  would  have  been  her 
reward. 

She  had  before  known  sorrow,  and  she  had  borne  it  pa 
tiently  and  cheerfully  ;  and  she  knew  that  the  life  which 
was  before  her  would  have  been  rendered  happier  by  the 
thought,  that  there  was  one  who  was  deeply  interested  for 
her  happiness,  and  who  sympathized  in  all  her  trials. 

When  she  parted  from  Henry  it  was  with  a  sense  of  lone 
liness,  of  utter  desolation,  such  as  she  had  never  before  ex 
perienced.  She  had  never  before  thought  that  he  was  dear 
to  her,  and  that  she  had  wished  to  carry  in  her  far-off  place 
of  abode  the  reflection  that  she  was  dear  to  him.  She  felt 
disappointed  and  mortified,  but  she  blamed  not  him,  neither 
did  she  blame  herself;  she  did  not  know  that  any  one  had 
been  to  blame.  Her  young  affections  had  gone  forth  as  nat 
urally  and  as  involuntarily  as  the  vapors  rise  to  meet  the 
sun.  But  the  sun  which  had  called  them  forth,  had  now 
gone  down,  and  they  were  returning  in  cold  drops  to  the 
heart-springs  from  which  they  had  arisen  ;  and  Susan  re 
solved  that  they  should  henceforth  form  a  secret  fount, 
whence  every  other  feeling  should  derive  new  strength  and 
vigor.  She  was  now  more  firmly  resolved  that  her  future 
life  should  be  wholly  devoted  to  her  kindred,  and  thought 
not  of  herself  but  as  connected  with  them. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IT  was  with  pain  that  Mrs.  Miller  heard  of  Susan's  plan  ; 
but  she  did  not  oppose  her.     She  felt  that  it  must  be  so, 


SfSAN    MILLER.  89 

that  she  must  part  with  her  for  her  own  good  and  the  bene 
fit  of  the  family  ;  and  Susan  hastily  made  preparations  for 
her  departure. 

She  arranged  everything  in  and  about  the  house  for  her 
mother's  convenience  ;  and  the  evening  before  she  left  she 
spent  in  instructing  Lydia  how  to  take  her  place,  as  far  as 
possible,  and  told  her  to  be  always  cheerful  with  mother, 
and  patient  with  the  younger  ones,  and  to  write  a  long  let 
ter  every  two  months  (for  she  could  not  afford  to  hear  often- 
er),  and  to  be  sure  and  not  forget  her  for  a  single  day. 

Then  she  went  to  her  own  room ;  and  when  she  had  re- 
examined  her  trunk,  bandbox,  and  basket,  to  see  that  all 
was  right,  and  laid  her  riding-dress  over  the  great  armchair, 
she  sat  down  by  the  window  to  meditate  upon  her  change  of 
life. 

She  thought,  as  she  looked  upon  the  spacious,  convenient 
chamber  in  which  she  was  sitting,  how  hard  it  would  be  to 
have  no  place  to  which  she  could  retire  and  be  alone,  and 
how  difficult  it  would  be  to  keep  her  things  in  order  in  the 
fourth  part  of  a  small  apartment,  and  how  possible  it  was 
that  she  might  have  unpleasant  room-mates,  and  how  proba 
ble  that  every  day  would  call  into  exercise  all  her  kindness 
and  forbearance.  And  then  she  wondered  if  it  would  be 
possible  for  her  to  work  so  long,  and  save  so  much,  as  to 
render  it  possible  that  she  might  one  day  return  to  that 
chamber  and  call  it  her  own.  Sometimes  she  wished  she 
had  not  undertaken  it,  that  she  had  not  let  the  deacon  know 
that  she  hoped  to  be  able  to  pay  him  ;  she  feared  that  she 
had  taken  a  burden  upon  herself  which  she  could  not  bear, 
and  sighed  to  think  that  her  lot  should  be  so  different  from 
that  of  most  young  girls. 

She  thought  of  the  days  when  she  was  a  little  child  ; 
when  she  played  with  Henry  at  the  brook,  or  picked  berries 
with  him  on  the  hill ;  when  her  mother  was  always  happy, 
and  her  father  always  kind  ;  and  she  wished  that  the  time 
could  roll  back,  and  she  could  again  be  a  careless  little 
girl. 

She  felt,  as  we  sometimes  do,  when  we  shut  our  eyes  and 
try  to  sleep,  and  get  back  into  some  pleasant  dream,  from 
which  we  have  been  too  suddenly  awakened.  But  the  dream 
of  youth  was  over,  and  before  her  A*tas  the  sad  waking  reali 
ty  of  a  life  of  toil,  separation,  and  sorrow. 

When  she  left  home  the  next  morning,  it  was  the  first 


90  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

time  she  had  ever  parted  from  her  friends.  The  day  was 
delightful,  and  the  scenery  beautiful ;  a  stage-ride  was  of  it 
self  a  novelty  to  her,  and  her  companions  pleasant  and  socia 
ble  ;  but  she  felt  very  sad,  and  when  she  retired  at  night  to 
sleep  in  a  hotel,  she  burst  into  tears. 

Those  who  see  the  factory  girls  in  Lowell,  little  think  of 
the  sighs  and  heart-aches  which  must  attend  a  young  girl's 
entrance  upon  a  life  of  toil  and  privation,  among  strangers. 

To  Susan,  the  first  entrance  into  a  factory  boarding-house 
seemed  something  dreadful.  The  rooms  looked  strange  and 
comfortless,  and  the  women  cold  and  heartless  ;  and  when 
she  sat  down  to  the  supper-table,  where,  among  more  than 
twenty  girls,  all  but  one  were  strangers,  she  could  not  eat  a 
mouthful.  She  went  with  Esther  to  their  sleeping  apart 
ment,  and,  after  arranging  her  clothes  and  baggage,  she 
went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep. 

The  next  morning  she  went  into  the  mill ;  and  at  first, 
the  sight  of  so  many  bands,  and  wheels,  and  springs,  in  con 
stant  motion  was  very  frightful.  She  felt  afraid  to  touch 
the  loom,  and  she  was  almost  sure  that  she  could  never 
learn  to  weave  ;  the  harness  puzzled  and  the  reed  perplexed 
her  ;  the  shuttle  flew  out,  and  made  a  new  bump  upon  her 
head  ;  and  the  first  time  she  tried  to  spring  the  lathe,  she 
broke  out  a  quarter  of  the  treads.  It  seemed  as  if  the  girls 
all  stared  at  her,  and  the  overseers  watched  every  motion, 
and  the  day  appeared  as  long  as  a  month  had  been  at  home. 
But  at  last  it  was  night ;  and  O,  how  glad  was  Susan  to  be 
released  !  She  felt  weary  and  wretched,  and  retired  to  rest 
without  taking  a  mouthful  of  refreshment.  There  was  a 
dull  pain  in  her  head,  and  a  sharp  pain  in  her  ankles  ;  every 
bone  was  aching,  and  there  was  in  her  ears  a  strange  noise, 
as  of  crickets,  frogs,  and  jews-harps,  all  mingling  together, 
and  she  felt  gloomy  and  sick  at  heart.  "  But  it  won't  seem 
so  always,"  said  she  to  herself;  and  with  this  truly  philo 
sophical  reflection,  she  turned  her  head  upon  a  hard  pillow, 
and  went  to  sleep. 

Susan  was  right,  it  did  not  seem  so  always.  Every  suc 
ceeding  day  seemed  shorter  and  pleasanter  than  the  last ; 
and  when  she  was  accustomed  to  the  work,  and  had  become 
interested  in  it,  the  hours  seemed  shorter,  and  the  days, 
weeks,  and  months  flew  more  swiftly  by  than  they  had  ever 
done  before.  She  was  healthy,  active,  and  ambitious,  and 
was  soon  able  to  earn  even  as  much  as  her  cousin,  who  had 
been  a  weaver  several  years. 


SUSAN    MILLER.  91 

Wages  were  then  much  higher  than  they  are  now  ;  and 
Susan  had  the  pleasure  of  devoting  the  avails  of  her  labor 
to  a  noble  and  cherished  purpose.  There  was  a  definite  aim 
before  her,  and  she  never  lost  sight  of  the  object  for  whicli 
she  left  her  home,  and  was  happy  in  the  prospect  of  fulfill 
ing  that  design.  And  it  needed  all  this  hope  of  success,  and 
all  her  strength  of  resolution,  to  enable  her  to  bear  up 
against  the  wearing  influences  of  a  life  of  unvarying  toil. 
Though  the  days  seemed  shorter  than  at  first,  yet  there  was 
a  tiresome  monotony  about  them.  Every  morning  the  bells 
pealed  forth  the  same  clangor,  and  every  night  brought  the 
same  feeling  of  fatigue.  But  Susan  felt,  as  all  factory  girls 
feel,  that  she  could  bear  it  for  a  while.  There  are  few  who 
look  upon  factory  labor  as  a  pursuit  for  life.  It  is  but  a 
temporary  vocation;  and  most  of  the  girls  resolve  to  quit 
the  mill  when  some  favorite  design  is  accomplished.  Mon 
ey  is  their  object — not  for  itself,  but  for  what  it  can  per 
form  ;  and  pay-days  are  the  landmarks  which  cheer  all 
hearts,  by  assuring  them  of  their  progress  to  the  wished-for 
goal. 

Susan  was  always  very  happy  when  she  enclosed  the 
quarterly  sum  to  Deacon  Rand,  although  it  was  hardly  won, 
and  earned  by  the  deprivation  of  many  little  comforts,  and 
pretty  articles  of  dress,  which  her  companions  could  pro 
cure.  But  the  thought  of  home,  and  the  future  happy  days 
which  she  might  enjoy  in  it,  was  the  talisman  which  ever 
cheered  and  strengthened  her. 

She  also  formed  strong  friendships  among  her  factory 
companions,  and  became  attached  to  her  pastor,  and  their 
place  of  worship.  After  the  first  two  years  she  had  also  the 
pleasure  of  her  sister's  society,  and  in  a  year  or  two  more, 
another  came.  She  did  not  wish  them  to  come  while  very 
young.  She  thought  it  better  that  their  bodies  should  be 
strengthened,  and  their  minds  educated  in  their  country 
home  ;  and  she  also  wished,  that  in  their  early  girlhood 
they  should  enjoy  the  same  pleasures  which  had  once  made 
her  own  life  a  very  happy  one. 

And  she  was  happy  now  ;  happy  in  the  success  of  her 
noble  exertions,  the  affection  and  gratitude  of  her  relatives, 
the  esteem  of  her  acquaintances,  and  the  approbation  of  con 
science.  Only  once  was  she  really  disquieted.  It  was  when 
her  sister  wrote  that  Henry  Rand  was  married  to  one  of 
their  old  school-mates.  For  a  moment  the  color  fled  from 


92  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

her  cheek,  and  a  quick  pang  went  through  her  heart.  It 
was  but  for  a  moment ;  and  then  she  sat  down  and  wrote 
to  the  newly-married  couple  a  letter,  which  touched  their 
hearts  by  its  simple  fervent  wishes  for  their  happiness,  and 
assurances  of  sincere  friendship. 

Susan  had  occasionally  visited  home,  and  she  longed  to 
go,  never  to  leave  it ;  but  she  conquered  the  desire,  and  re 
mained  in  Lowell  more  than  a  year  after  the  last  dollar  had 
been  forwarded  to  Deacon  Rand.  And  then,  O,  how  happy 
was  she  when  she  entered  her  chamber  the  first  evening  af 
ter  her  arrival,  and  viewed  its  newly-painted  wainscoting, 
and  brightly-colored  paper-hangings,  and  the  new  furniture 
with  which  she  had  decorated  it ;  and  she  smiled  as  she 
thought  of  the  sadness  which  had  filled  her  heart  the  even 
ing  before  she  first  went  to  Lowell. 

She  now  always  thinks  of  Lowell  with  pleasure,  for  Lyd- 
ia  is  married  here,  and  she  intends  to  visit  her  occasionally, 
and  even  sometimes  thinks  of  returning  for  a  little  while  to 
the  mills.  Her  brother  James  has  married,  and  resides  in 
one  half  of  the  house,  which  he  has  recently  repaired  ;  and 
Eliza,  though  still  in  the  factory,  is  engaged  to  a  wealthy 
young  farmer. 

Susan  is  with  her  mother,  and  younger  brothers  and  sis 
ters.  People  begin  to  think  she  will  be  an  old  maid,  and 
she  thinks  herself  that  it  will  be  so.  The  old  deacon  still 
calls  her  a  good  child,  and  prays  every  night  and  morning 
for  the  factory  girls.  F.  G.  A. 


SCENES  ON  THE  MERRIMAC. 

I  HAVE  been  but  a  slight  traveller,  and  the  beautiful  rivers 
of  our  country  have,  with  but  one  or  two  exceptions,  rolled 
their  bright  waves  before  "  the  orbs  of  fancy"  alone,  and 
not  to  my  visual  senses.  But  the  few  specimens  which 
have  been  favored  me  of  river  scenery,  have  been  very  hap 
py  in  the  influence  they  have  exerted  upon  my  mind,  in  fa 
vor  of  this  feature  of  natural  loveliness. 

I  do  not  wonder  that  the  "  stream  of  his  fathers  "  should 
be  ever  so  favorite  a  theme  with  the  poet,  and  that  where- 


SCENES    ON    THE  MERRIMAC.  93 

ever  he  has  sung-  its  praise,  the  spot  should  henceforth  be  as 
classic  ground.  Wherever  some  "gently  rolling-  river" 
lias  whispered  its  soft  murmurs  to  the  recording-  muse,  its 
name  has  been  linked  with  his ;  and  far  as  that  name  may 
extend,  is  the  beauty  of  that  inspiring  streamlet  appreciat 
ed. 

Helicon  and  Castalia  are  more  frequently  referred  to  than 
Parnassus, — and  even  the  small  streams  of  hilly  Scotland, 
are  renowned  wherever  the  songs  of  her  poet  "  are  said  or 
sung."  "  The  banks  and  braes  o'  bonny  Doon,"  are  duly 
applauded  in  the  drawing-rooms  of  America;  and  the  Tweed, 
the  "  clear  winding  Devon,"  the  "  braes  of  Ayr,"  the 
"  braes  o'  Ballochmyle,"  and  the  "  sweet  Afton,"  so  often 
the  theme  of  his  lays,  for  his  "  Mary's  asleep  by  its  mur 
muring  stream,"  are  names  even  here  quite  as  familiar,  per 
haps  more  so,  than  our  own  broad  and  beauteous  rivers. 
Such  is  the  hallowing  power  of  Genius;  and  upon  whatever 
spot  she  may  cast  her  bright  unfading  mantle,  there  is  for 
ever  stamped  the  impress  of  beauty. 

"  The  Bard  of  Avon  "  is  an  honorary  title  wherever  our 
language  is  read ;  and  though  we  may  have  few  streams 
which  have  as  yet  been  sacred  to  the  muse,  yet  time  will 
doubtless  bring  forth  those  whose  genius  shall  make  the  In 
dian  cognomens  of  our  noble  rivers'  names  associated  with  all 
that  is  lofty  in  intellect  and  beautiful  in  poetry. 

The  Merrimac  has  already  received  the  grateful  tribute  of 
praise  from  the  muse  of  the  New  England  poet ;  and  well 
does  it  merit  the  encomiums  which  he  has  bestowed  upon  it. 
It  is  a  beautiful  river,  from  the  time  when  its  blue  waters 
start  on  their  joyous  course,  leaving  "  the  smile  of  the  Great 
Spirit,"  to  wind  through  many  a  vale,  and  round  many  a 
hill,  till  they  mingle 

"  With  ocean's  dark  eternal  tide." 

I  have  said  that  I  have  seen  but  few  rivers.  No !  never 
have  I  stood 

"  Where  Hudson  rolls  his  lordly  flood; 
Seen  sunrise  rest,  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  palisade  ; 
Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak  ; 

8 


94  MIND    AMONGST    THE     SPINDLES. 

Or  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream  j 
The  setting  sun,  his  axle  red 
Quench  darkly  in  Potomac's  bed  ; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna  j" — 

but  I  still  imagine  that  all  their  beauties  are  concentrated  in 
the  blue  waters  of  the  Merrimac — not  as  it  appears  here, 
where,  almost  beneath  my  factory  window,  its  broad  tide 
moves  peacefully  along  ;  but  where  by  "  Salisbury's  beach 
of  shining  sand,"  it  rolls  amidst  far  lovelier  scenes,  and  with 
more  rapid  flow.  Perhaps  it  is  because  it  is  my  river  that  I 
think  it  so  beautiful — no  matter  if  it  is  ;  there  is  a  great 
source  of  gratification  in  the  feeling  of  whatever  is  in  any 
way  connected  with  our  humble  selves  is  on  that  account  in 
vested  with  some  distinctive  charm,  and  in  some  mysterious 
way  rendered  peculiarly  lovely. 

But  even  to  the  stranger's  eye,  if  he  have  any  taste  for  the 
beautiful  in  nature,  the  charms  of  the  banks  of  the  Merrimac 
would  not  be  disregarded.  Can  there  be  a  more  beautiful 
bend  in  a  river,  than  that  which  it  makes  at  Salisbury  Point  ? 
It  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  seenes,  at  all  events,  which 
I  have  ever  witnessed.  Stand  for  a  moment  upon  the  draw 
bridge  which  spans  with  its  single  arch  the  spot  where  "  the 
winding  Powow  "  joins  his  sparkling  waters  with  the  broad 
tide  of  the  receiving  river.  We  will  suppose  it  is  a  summer 
morning.  The  thin  white  mist  from  the  Atlantic,  which 
the  night-spirit  has  thrown,  like  a  bridal  veil,  over  the  vale 
and  river,  is  gently  lifted  by  Aurora,  and  the  unshrouded 
waters  blush  "  celestial  rosy  red  "  at  the  exposure  of  their 
own  loveliness.  But  the  bright  flush  is  soon  gone,  and  as 
the  sun  rides  higher  in  the  heavens,  the  millions  of  little 
wavelets  don  their  diamond  crowns,  and  rise,  and  sink,  and 
leap,  and  dance  rejoicingly  together ;  and  while  their  spark 
ling  brilliancy  arrests  the  eye,  their  murmurs  of  delight  are 
no  less  grateful  to  the  ear.  The  grove  upon  the  Newbury 
side  is  already  vocal  with  the  morning  anthems  of  the  feath 
ered  choir,  and  from  the  maple,  oak,  and  pine  is  rising  one 
glad  peal  of  melody.  The  slight  fragrance  of  the  kalmia, 
or  American  laurel,  which  flourishes  here  in  much  profu 
sion,  is  borne  upon  the  morning  breeze  ;  and  when  their  ro 
seate  umbels  are  opened  to  the  sun,  they  "  sing  to  the  eye," 
as  their  less  stationary  companions  have  done  to  the  ear. 


SCENES    ON    THE    MERR1MAC.  95 

The  road  which  accompanies  the  river  in  its  beauteous 
curve,  is  soon  alive  with  the  active  laborers  of  "  Salisbury 
shore  ;  "  and  soon  the  loud  "  Heave-ho  !  "  of  the  ship 
builders  is  mingled  with  the  more  mellifluous  tones  which 
have  preceded  them.  The  other  busy  inhabitants  are  soon 
threading  the  winding  street,  and  as  they  glance  upon  their 
bright  and  beauteous  river,  their  breasts  swell  with  emotions 
of  pleasure,  though  in  their  constant  and  active  bustle,  they 
may  seldom  pause  to  analyze  the  cause.  The  single  sail  of 
the  sloop  which  has  lain  so  listless  at  the  little  wharf,  and 
the  double  one  of  the  schooner  which  is  about  to  traverse  its 
way  to  the  ocean,  are  unfurled  to  the  morning  wind,  and  the 
loud  orders  of  the  bustling  skipper,  and  the  noisy  echoes  of 
his  bustling  men,  are  borne  upon  the  dewy  breeze,  and  echo 
ed  from  the  Newbury  slopes.  Soon  they  are  riding  upon 
the  bright  waters,  and  the  little  skiff  or  wherry  is  also  seen 
darting  about,  amidst  the  rolling  diamonds,  while  here  and 
there  a  heavy  laden  "  gundelow  "  moves  slowly  along, 
"  with  sure  and  steady  aim,"  as  though  it  disdained  the 
pastime  of  its  livelier  neighbors. 

Such  is  many  a  morning  scene  on  the  banks  of  the  Merri- 
mac  ;  and  not  less  delightful  are  those  of  the  evening.  Per 
haps  the  sunset  has  passed.  The  last  golden  tint  has  faded 
from  the  river,  and  its  waveless  surface  reflects  the  deep 
blue  of  heaven,  and  sends  back  undimmed  the  first  faint  ray 
of  the  evening  star.  The  rising  tide  creeps  rippling  up  the 
narrow  beach,  sending  along  its  foremost  swell,  which,  in  a 
sort  of  drowsy  play,  leaps  forward,  and  then  sinks  gently 
back  upon  its  successors.  Now  the  tide  is  up — the  trees 
upon  the  wooded  banks  of  Newbury,  and  the  sandy  hills  up 
on  the  Amesbury  side,  are  pencilled  with  minutest  accuracy 
in  the  clear  waters.  Farther  dowrn,  the  dwellings  at  the 
Ferry,  and  those  of  the  Point,  which  stand  upon  the  banks, 
are  also  mirrored  in  the  deep  stream.  You  might  also  fan 
cy  that  beneath  its  lucid  tide  there  was  a  duplicate  village, 
so  distinct  is  every  shadow.  As,  one  by  one,  the  lights  ap 
pear  in  the  cottage  windows,  their  reflected  fires  shoot  up 
from  the  depths  of  the  Merrimac. 

But  the  waters  shine  with  brighter  radiance  as  evening 
lengthens  ;  for  Luna  grows  more  lavish  of  her  silvery  beams 
as  the  crimson  tints  of  her  brighter  rival  die  in  the  western 
sky.  The  shore  is  still  and  motionless,  save  where  a  pair 
of  happy  lovers  steal  slowly  along  the  shadowed  walk  which 


98  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

leads  to  Pleasant  Valley.  The  old  weather-worn  ship  at 
the  Point,  which  has  all  day  long  resounded  with  the  clatter 
of  mischievous  hoys,  is  now  wrapped  in  silence.  The  new 
one  in  the  ship-yard,  which  has  also  been  dinning  with  the 
maul  and  hammer,  is  equally  quiet.  But  from  the  broad 
surface  of  the  stream  there  comes  the  song,  the  shout,  and 
the  ringing  laugh  of  the  light-hearted.  They  come  from 
the  boats  which  dot  the  water,  and  are  filled  with  the  young 
and  gay.  Some  have  just  shot  from  the  little  wharf,  and 
others  have  been  for  hours  upon  the  river.  What  they  have 
been  doing,  and  where  they  have  been,  I  do  not  precisely 
know  ;  but,  from  the  boughs  which  have  been  broken  from 
somebody' 's  trees,  and  the  large  clusters  of  laurel  which  the 
ladies  bear,  1  think  I  can  "  guess-o." 

But  it  grows  late.  The  lights  which  have  glowed  in  the 
reflected  buildings  have  one  by  one  been  quenched,  and  still 
those  lierht  harks  remain  upon  the  river  And  that  large 
"  gundelow,"  which  carne  down  the  Powow,  from  the  mills, 
with  its  freight  of  "  factory  girls,"  sends  forth  "  the  sound 
of  music  and  dancing."  We  will  leave  them — for  it  is  pos 
sible  that  they  will  linger  till  after  midnight,  and  we  have 
staid  quite  long  enough  to  obtain  an  evening's  glimpse  at 
the  Merrimac. 

Such  are  some  of  the  scenes  on  the  river,  and  many  are 
also  the  pleasant  spots  upon  its  banks.  Beautiful  walks  and 
snug  little  nooks  are  not  unfrequent ;  and  there  are  bright 
green  sheltered  coves,  like  Pleasant  Valley,  where  u  all 
save  the  spirit  of  man  is  divine." 

I  remember  the  first  steamboat  which  ever  came  hissing 
and  puffing  and  groaning  and  sputtering  up  the  cairn  surface 
of  the  Merrimac.  I  remember  also  the  lovely  moonlight 
evening  when  I  watched  her  return  from  Haverhill,and  when 
every  wave  and  rock  and  tree  were  lying  bathed  in  a  flood  of 
silver  radiance.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  her  noisy  approach, 
so  strongly  contrasted  with  the  stillness  around,  nor  the  long 
loud  ringing  cheers  which  hailed  her  arrival  and  accompa 
nied  hor  departure.  I  noted  every  movement,  as  she  hissed 
and  splashed  among  the  bright  waters,  until  she  reached  the 
curve  in  the  river,  and  then  w  is  lost  to  view,  excepting  the 
thick  sparks  which  rose  above  the  glistening  foilaga  of  the 
wooded  hanks. 

I  remember  also  the  first  timo  I  ever  saw  the  aborigines  of 
our  country.  They  were  Penobscots,  and  then,  I  believe, 


SCENES    ON    THE    MKRK1MAC.  97 

upon  their  way  to  this  city.  They  encamped  among  the 
woods  of  the  Xewlmry  shore,  ami  crossed  the  river  (there 
a!>out  :i  mile  in  Width)  in  their  little  canoes,  whenever  they 
.  trade.—  Tliey  sadly  refuted  the  romantic 
ideas  whieh  I  had  formed  from  the  descriptions  of  Cooper 
and  others;  nevertheless,  they  were  to  me  an  interesting 
people.  They  appeared  so  strange,  with  their  hireh-hark 
canoes  and  wooden  paddles,  their  women  with  men's  hats 
and  sneh  outre  dresses,  their  little  hoys  with  their  unfailing 
I'ovssand  arrows,  and  the  little  feel  whieh  they  all  had. 
Their  curious,  bright-stained  haskets,  too,  whieh  they  sold 
or  <:avc  away.  I  have  one  of  them  now,  hut  it  has  lost  its 
bright  tints.  It  was  Driven  me  in  return  for  a  slight  favor. — 
I  rem.-mher  also  one  dreadful  stormy  night  while  they  were 
amongst  us.  The  rain  poured  in  torrents.  The  thick  dark 
ness  was  unrelieved  l>v  a  single  lightning-llash,  and  the 
murmur  of  the  seething  river  was  the  only  noise 
which  could  he  distinguished  from  the  pitiless  storm.  I 
thought  of  my  new  acquaintance,  and  looked  out  in  the  di 
rection  of  their  camp.  1  could  see  at  onetime  the  lights 
llickermg  among  t!ie  thick  trees,  and  darting  rapidly  to  ami 
fro  behind  them,  and  then  all  would  he  unbroken  gloom. 
Sometimes  1  fancied  1  could  distinguish  a  whoop  or  yell,  and 
then  1  heard  nought  hut  the  pelting  of  the  rain.  As  1  ^a/ed 
on  the  wild  scene,  I  was  strongly  reminded  of  scenes  which 
are  d<  scribed  in  old  bonier  tales," of  wild  banditti,  and  night 
revels  of  lawless  hordes  of  barbarians. 

These  are  summer  scenes  ;  and  in  winter  there  is  nothing 
particularly  beautiful  in  the  icy  robe  with  which  the  Merri- 
mac  often  enrobes  its  chilled  waters.  But  the  breaking  up 
of  the  ice  is  an  e\ent  of  much  interest. 

As  spring  approaches,  and  the  weather  becomes  milder, 
the  river,  which  has  been  a  thoroughfare  for  loaded  teams 
ami  lighter  sleighs,  is  gradually  shunned,  even  by  the  daring 
skater.  Little  pods  of  bluish  water,  which  the  sun  has 
melted,  stand  in  slight  hollows,  distinctly  contrasted  with 
the  clear  dark  ice  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  or  the  tlaky 
snow-crust  near  the  shore.  At  length  a  loud  crack  is  heard, 
like  the  report  of  a  cannon — then  another,  and  another — and 
finally  the  loosened  ma^.s  begins  to  move  towards  the  ocean. 
The 'motion  at  first  is  almost  imperceptible,  but  it  gradually 
•s  in  velocity,  as  the  impetus  of  the  descending  ico 
;>ropels  it  along  ;  and  soon  the  dark  blue  waters  are 


98  MIND   AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

seen  between  the  huge  chasms  of  the  parting  ice.  By  and 
bye,  the  avalanches  come  drifting  down,  tumbling,  crashing, 
and  whirling  along,  with  the  foaming  waves  boiling  up 
wherever  they  can  find  a  crevice  ;  and  trunks  of  trees,  frag 
ments  of  buildings,  and  ruins  of  bridges,  are  driven  along 
with  the  tumultuous  mass. — A  single  night  will  sometimes 
clear  the  river  of  the  main  portion  of  the  ice,  and  then  the 
darkly-tinted  waters  will  roll  rapidly  on,  as  though  wildly 
rejoicing  at  their  deliverance  from  bondage.  ButTfor  some 
time  the  white  cakes,  or  rather  ice-islands,  will  be  seen  float 
ing  along,  though  hourly  diminishing  in  size,  and  becoming 
more  "  like  angel's  visits." 

But  there  is  another  glad  scene  occasionally  upon  the 
Merrimac — and  that  is,  when  there  is  a  launching.  I  have 
already  alluded  to  the  ship-builders,  and  they  form  quite  a 
proportion  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  shore.  And  now,  by 
the  way,  I  cannot  omit  a  passing  compliment  to  the  inhabit 
ants  of  this  same  shore.  It  is  seldom  that  so  correct,  intelli 
gent,  contented,  and  truly  comfortable  a  class  of  people  is 
to  be  found,  as  in  this  pretty  hamlet.  Pretty  it  most  cer 
tainly  is — for  nearly  all  the  houses  are  neatly  painted,  and 
some  of  them  indicate  much  taste  in  the  owners.  And  then 
the  people  are  so  kind,  good,  and  industrious.  A  Newbury- 
port  editor  once  said  of  them,  "  They  are  nice  folks  thereon 
Salisbury  shore  ;  they  always  pay  for  their  newspapers  " — 
a  trait  of  excellence  which  printers  can  usually  appreciate. 

But  now  to  the  ships,  whose  building  I  have  often  watch 
ed  with  interest,  from  the  day  when  the  long  keel  was  laid 
till  it  was  launched  into  the  river.  This  is  a  scene  which  is 
likewise  calculated  to  inspire  salutary  reflections,  from  the 
comparison  which  is  often  instituted  between  ourselves  and 
a  wave-tossed  bark.  Plow  often  is  the  commencement  of 
active  life  compared  to  the  launching  of  a  ship  ;  and  even 
the  unimaginative  Puritans  could  sing, 

"  Life's  like  a  ship  in  constant  motion, 
Sometimes  high  and  sometimes  low, 

Where  every  man  must  plough  the  ocean, 
Whatsoever  winds  may  blow." 

The  striking  analogy  has  been  more  beautifully  expressed 
by  better  poets,  though  hardly  with  more  force.  And  if  we 
.are  like  wind-tossed  vessels  on  a  stormy  sea,  then  the  grad- 


SCENES   ON    THE   MERRIMAC.  99 

ual  formation  of  our  minds  may  be  compared  to  the  building 
of  a  ship.  And  it  was  this  thought  which  often  attracted  my 
notice  to  the  labors  of  the  shipwright. 

First,  the  long  keel  is  laid — then  the  huge  ribs  go  up  the 
sides ;  then  the  rail-way  runs  around  the  top.  Then  com 
mences  the  boarding  or  timbering  of  the  sides  ;  and  for 
weeks,  or  months,  the  builder's  mauljs  heard,  as  he  pounds 
in  the  huge  trunnels  which  fasten  all  together.  Then 
there  is  the  finishing  inside,  and  the  painting  outside,  and, 
after  all,  the  launching. 

The  first  that  I  ever  saw  was  a  large  and  noble  ship.  It 
had  been  long  in  building,  and  I  had  watched  its  progress 
with  much  interest.  The  morning  it  was  to  be  launched  I 
played  truant  to  witness  the  scene.  It  was  a  fine  sunshiny 
day,  Sept.  21, 1832  ;  and  I  almost  wished  i  was  a  boy,  that 
I  might  join  the  throng  upon  the  deck,  who  were  determined 
upon  a  ride.  The  blocks  which  supported  the  ship  were 
severally  knocked  out,  until  it  rested  upon  but  one.  When 
that  was  gone,  the  ship  would  rest  upon  greased  planks,, 
which  descended  to  the  water.  It  must  have  been  a  thrilling 
moment  to  the  man  who  lay  upon  his  back,  beneath  the  huge 
vessel,  when  he  knocked  away  the  last  prop.  But  it  was 
done,  and  swiftly  it  glided  along  the  planks,  then  plunged 
into  the  river,  with  an  impetus  which  sunk  her  almost  to  her 
deck,  and  carried  her  nearly  to  the  middle  of  the  river. 
Then  she  slowly  rose,  rocked  back  and  forth,  and  finally 
righted  herself,  and  stood  motionless.  But  while  the  dash 
ing  foaming  waters  were  still  clamorously  welcoming  her  to 
a  new  element,  and  the  loud  cheers  from  the  deck  were 
ringing  up  into  the  blue  sky,  the  bottle  was  thrown,  and  she 
was  named  the  WALTER  SCOTT.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  this  was  the  very  day  on  which  the  Great  Magician 
died — a  fact  noticed  in  the  Saturday  Courier  about  that 
time. 

Several  years  after  this,  I  was  attending  school  in  a, 
neighboring  town.  I  happened  one  evening  to  take  up  a 
newspaper.  I  think  it  was  a  Portsmouth  paper  ;  and  I  saw 
the  statement  that  a  fine  new  ship  had  been  burnt  at  sea, 
called  the  W ALTER  SCOTT.  The  particulars  were  so  minute 
ly  given,  as  to  leave  no  room  for  doubt  that  it  was  the  beau 
tiful  vessel  which  I  had  seen  launched  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Merrimac. 

ANNETTE. 


100  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 


THE  FIRST  BELLS. 

CHAPTER    I. 

THERE  are  times  when  I  am  melancholy,  when  the  sun 
seems  to  shine  with  a  shadowy  light,  and  the  woods  are  fill 
ed  with  notes  of  sadness  ;  when  the  up-springing  flowers 
seem  blossoms  strewed  upon  a  bier,  and  every  streamlet 
chants  a  requiem.  Have  we  not  all  our  trials  ?  And  though 
we  may  bury  the  sad  thoughts  to  which  they  give  birth  in 
the  dark  recesses  of  our  own  hearts,  yet  Memory  and  Sens 
ibility  must  both  be  dead,  if  we  can  always  be  light  and 
mirthful. 

Once  it  was  not  so.  There  was  a  time  when  I  gaily 
viewed  the  dull  clouds  of  a  rainy  day,  and  could  hear  the 
voice  of  rejoicing  in  the  roarings  of  the  wintry  storm,  when 
sorrow  was  an  unmeaning  word,  and  in  things  which  now 
appear  sacred  my  thoughtless  mind  could  see  the  ludicrous. 

These  thoughts  have  been  suggested  by  the  recollection 
of  a  poor  old  couple,  to  whom  in  my  careless  girlbood  I 
gave  the  name  of  "  the  first  bells."  And  now,  I  doubt  not, 
you  are  wondering  what  strange  association  of  ideas  could 
have  led  me  to  fasten  this  appellation  upon  a  poor  old  man 
and  woman.  My  answer  must  be  the  narration  of  a  few 
facts. 

When  I  was  young,  we  all  worshipped  in  the  great  meet 
ing-house,  which  now  stands  so  vacant  and  forlorn  upon  the 
brow  of  Church  Hill.  It  is  never  used  but  upon  town-meet 
ing  days — for  those  who  once  went  up  to  the  house  of  God 
in  company,  now  worship  in  three  separate  buildings.  There 
is  discord  between  them — that  worst  of  all  hatred,  the  ani 
mosity  which  arises  from  difference  of  religious  opinions. 
I  am  sorry  for  it ;  not  that  I  regret  that  they  cannot  all  think 
alike,  but  that  they  cannot  "  agree  to  differ."  Because  the 
heads  are  not  in  unison,  it  needeth  not  that  the  hearts  should 
be  estranged  ;  and  a  difference  of  faith  may  be  expressed  in 
kindly  words.  I  have  my  friends  among  them  all,  and  they 
are  not  the  less  dear  to  me,  because  upon  some  doctrinal 
points  our  opinions  cannot  be  the  same.  A  creed  which  I 
do  not  now  believe  is  hallowed  by  recollections  of  the  Sab 
bath  worship,  the  evening  meetings,  the  religious  feelings — 
in  short,  of  the  faith,  hope,  and  trust  of  my  earlier  days. 


THE    FIRST   BELLS.  104 

I  remember  now  how  still  and  beautiful  our  Sunday  morn 
ings  used  to  seem,  after  the  toil  and  play  of  the  busy  week. 
I  would  take  my  catechism  in  my  hand,  and  go  and  sit  upon 
a  large  flat  stone,  under  the  shade  of  the  chestnut  tree  ; 
and,  looking  abroad,  would  wonder  if  there  was  a  thing 
which  did  not  feel  that  it  was  the  Sabbath.  The  sun  was 
as  bright  and  warm  as  upon  other  days,  but  its  light  seemed 
to  fall  more  softly  upon  the  fields,  woods  and  hills  ;  and 
though  the  birds  sung  as  loudly  and  joyfully  as  ever,  I 
thought  their  sweet  voices  united  in  a  more  sacred  strain. 
1  heard  a  Sabbath  tone  in  the  waving  of  the  boughs  above 
me,  and  the  hum  of  the  bees  around  me,  and  even  the 
bleating  of  the  lambs  and  the  lowing  of  the  kine  seemed 
pitched  upon  some  softer  key.  Thus  it  is  that  the  heart 
fashions  the  mantle  with  which  it  is  wont  to  enrobe  all  nature, 
and  gives  to  its  never  silent  voices  a  tone  of  joy,  or  sorrow, 
or  holy  peace. 

We  had  then  no  bell ;  and  when  the  hour  approached  for 
the  commencement  of  religious  services,  each  nook  and  dale 
sent  forth  its  worshippers  in  silence.  But  precisely  half  an 
hour  before  the  rest  of  our  neighbors  started,  the  old  man 
and  woman,  who  lived  upon  Pine  Hill,  could  be  seen  w*end- 
ing  their  way  to  the  meeting-house.  They  walked  side  by 
side,  with  a  slow  even  step,  such  as  was  befitting  the  errand 
which  had  brought  them  forth.  Their  appearance  was  al 
ways  the  signal  for  me  to  lay  aside  my  book,  and  prepare  to 
follow  them  to  the  house  of  God.  And  it  was  because  they 
were  so  unvarying  in  their  early  attendance,  because  I  was 
never  disappointed  in  the  forms  which  first  emerged  from  the 
pine  trees  upon  the  hill,  that  I  gave  them  the  name  of  "  the 
first  bells/' 

Why  they  went  thus  regularly  early  I  know  not,  but 
think  it  probable  they  wished  for  time  to  rest  after  their  long 
walk,  and  then  to  prepare  their  hearts  to  join  in  exercises 
which  were  evidently  more  valued  by  them  than  by  most  of 
those  around  them.  Yet  it  must  have  been  a  deep  interest 
which  brought  so  large  a  congregation  from  the  scattered 
houses,  and  many  far-off  dwellings  of  our  thinly  peopled 
country  town. 

And  every  face  was  then  familiar  to  me.     I  knew  each 

white-headed  patriarch  who  took  his  seat  by  the  door  of  his 

pew,  and  every  aged  woman  who  seated  herself  in  the  low 

chair  in  the  middle  of  it  ;    and  the  countenances  of  the  mid- 

9 


102  MiND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

die-aged  and  the  young  were  rendered  familiar  by  the  ex 
change  of  Sabbath  glances,  as  we  met  year  after  year  in  that 
humble  temple. 

But  upon  none  did  I  look  with  more  interest  than  upon 
"the  first  bells."  There  they  always  were  when  I  took 
my  accustomed  seat  at  the  right  hand  of  the  pulpit.  Their 
heads  were  always  bowed  in  meditation  till  they  arose  to 
•join  in  the  morning  prayer ;  and  when  the  choir  sent  forth 
their  strain  of  praise  they  drew  nearer  to  each  other,  and 
looked  upon  the  same  book,  as  they  silently  sent  forth  the 
spirit's  song  to  their  Father  in  heaven.  There  was  an  ex 
pression  of  meekness,  of  calm  and  perfect  faith,  and  of  sub 
dued  sorrow  upon  the  countenances  of  both,  which  won 
my  reverence,  and  excited  my  curiosity  to  know  more  of 
them. 

They  were  poor.  I  knew  it  by  the  coarse  and  much- 
worn  garments  which  they  always  wore  ;  but  I  could  not 
conjecture  why  they  avoided  the  society  and  sympathy  of  all 
around  them.  They  always  waited  for  our  pastor's  greet 
ing  when  he  descended  from  the  pulpit,  and  meekly  bowed 
to  all  around,  but  farther  than  this,  their  intercourse  with 
others  extended  not.  It  appeared  to  me  that  some  heavy 
trial,  which  had  knit  their  own  hearts  more  closely  together, 
and  endeared  to  them  their  faith  and  its  religious  observances, 
had  also  rendered  them  unusually  sensitive  to  the  careless 
remarks  and  curious  inquiries  of  a  country  neighborhood. 

One  Sabbath  our  pastor  preached  upon  parental  love.  His 
text  was  that  affecting  ejaculation  of  David,  "  O  Absalom, 
my  son,  my  son  !  "  He  spoke  of  the  depth  aud  fervor  of 
that  affection  which  in  a  parental  heart  will  remain  unchang 
ed  and  unabated,  through  years  of  sin,  estrangement,  and 
rebellion.  He  spoke  of  that  reckless  insubordination  which 
often  sends  pang  after  pang  through  the  parent's  breast; 
and  of  wicked  deeds  which  sometimes  bring  their  grey  hairs 
in  sorrow  to  the  grave.  I  heard  stifled  sobs  ;  and  looking 
up,  saw  that  the  old  man  and  woman  at  the  right  hand  of 
the  pulpit  had  buried  their  faces  in  their  hands.  They  were 
trembling  with  agitation,  and  I  saw  that  a  fount  of  deep 
and  painful  remembrances  had  now  been  opened.  They 
soon  regained  their  usual  calmness,  but  I  thought  their 
steps  more  slow,  and  their  countenances  more  sorrowful 
that  day,  when  after  our  morning  service  had  closed,  they 
went  to  the  grave  in  the  corner  of  the  churchyard.  There 


THE   FIRST  BELLS.  103 

was  no  stone  to  mark  it,  but  their  feet  had  been  wearing, 
for  many  a  Sabbath  noon,  the  little  path  which  led  to  it. 

I  went  that  night  to  my  mother,  and  asked  her  if  she 
could  not  tell  me  something  about  "the  first  belis."  She 
chid  me  for  the  phrase  by  which  I  was  wont  to  designate 
them,  but  said  that  her  knowledge  of  their  former  life  was 
very  limited.  Several  years  before,  she  added,  a  man  waa 
murdered  in  hot  blood  in  a  distant  town,  by  a  person  named 
John  L.  The  murderer  was  tried  and  hung  ;  and  not  long 
after,  this  old  man  and  woman  came  and  hired  the  little  cot 
tage  upon  Pine  Hill.  Their  names  were  the  same  that  the 
murderer  had  borne,  and  their  looks  of  sadness  and  retiring 
manners  had  led  to  the  conclusion  that  they  were  his  parents. 
No  one  knew,  certainly,  that  it  was  so — for  they  shrunk 
from  all  inquiries,  and  never  adverted  to  the  past ;  but  a 
gentle  and  sad  looking  girl,  who  had  accompanied  them  to 
their  new  place  of  abode,  had  pined  away,  and  died  within 
the  first  year  of  their  arrival.  She  was  their  daughter,  and 
was  supposed  to  have  died  of  a  broken  heart  for  her  brother 
who  had  been  hung.  She  was  buried  in  the  corner  of  the 
churchyard,  and  every  pleasant  Sabbath  noon  her  aged  pa 
rents  had  mourned  together  over  her  lowly  grave. 

"  And  now,  my  daughter,"  said  my  mother,  in  conclu 
sion  "  respect  their  years,  their  sorrows,  and,  above  all,  the 
deep  fervent  piety  which  cheers  and  sustains  them,  and 
which  has  been  nurtured  by  agonies,  and  watered  by  tears, 
such  as  I  hope  my  child  will  never  know." 

My  mother  drew  me  to  her  side,  and  kissed  me  tenderly ; 
and  I  resolved  that  never  again  would  I  in  a  spirit  of  levity 
call  Mr.  and  Mrs.  L.  "  the  first  bells." 


CHAPTER    II. 

YEARS  passed  on  ;  and  through  summer's  sunshine  and 
its  showers,  and  through  winter's  cold  and  frost,  and  storms, 
that  old  couple  still  went  upon  their  never-failing  Ssbbath 
pilgrimage.  I  can  see  them  even  now,  as  they  looked  in 
days  long  gone  by.  The  old  man,  with  his  loose,  black, 
Quaker-like  coat,  and  low-crowned,  much-worn  hat,  his 
heavy  cowhide  boots,  and  coarse  blue  mittens  ;  and  his 
partner  walking  slowly  by  his  side,  wearing  a  scanty  brown 
cloak  with  four  little  capes,  and  a  close,  black,  rusty-looking 


104  MIND    AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 

bonnet.  In  summer  the  cloak  was  exchanged  for  a  cotton 
shawl,  and  the  woollen  gown  for  one  of  mourning  print. 
The  Sabbath  expression  was  as  unchangeable  as  its  dress. 
Their  features  were  very  different,  but  they  had  the  same 
mild,  mournful  look,  the  same  touching  glance,  whenever 
their  eyes  rested  upon  each  other  ;  and  it  was  one  which 
spoke  of  sympathy,  hallowed  by  heartfelt  piety. 

At  length  a  coffin  was  borne  upon  a  bier  from  the  little 
house  upon  the  hill ;  and  after  that  the  widow  went  alone 
each  Sabbath  noon  to  the  two  graves  in  the  corner  of  the 
churchyard.  I  felt  sad  when  I  thought  how  lonely  and 
sorrowful  she  must  be  now  ;  and  one  pleasant  day  I  ventur-> 
ed  an  unbidden  guest  into  her  lowly  cot.  As  I  approached 
her  door,  I  heard  her  singing  in  a  low,  tremulous  tone, 

"How  are  thy  servants  blessed,  O  Lord." 

I  was  touched  to  the  heart ;  for  I  could  see  that  her  bles 
sings  were  those  of  a  faith,  hope,  and  joy,  which  the  world 
could  neither  give  nor  take  away. 

She  was  evidently  destitute  of  what  the  world  calls  com 
forts,  and  I  feared  she  might  also  want  its  necessaries.  But 
her  look  was  almost  cheerful  as  she  assured  me  that  her 
knitting  (at  which  I  perceived  she  was  quite  expeditious) 
supplied  her  with  all  which  she  now  wanted. 

I  looked  upon  her  sunburnt,  wrinkled  countenance,  and 
thought  it  radiant  with  moral  beauty.  She  wore  no  cap, 
and  her  thin  grey  hair  was  combed  back  from  her  furrowed 
brow.  Her  dress  was  a  blue  woollen  skirt,  and  a  short  loose 
gown  ;  and  her  hard  shrivelled  hands  bore  witness  to  much 
unfeminine  labor.  Yet  she  was  contented,  and  even  happy, 
and  singing  praise  to  God  for  his  blessings. 

The  next  winter  I  thought  I  could  perceive  a  faltering  in 
her  gait  whenever  she  ascended  Church  Hill ;  and  one  Sab 
bath  she  was  not  in  her  accustomed  seat.  The  next,  she 
was  also  absent ;  and  when  I  looked  upon  Pine  Hill,  I  could 
perceive  no  smoke  issuing  from  her  chimney.  I  felt  anx 
ious,  and  requested  liberty  to  make,  what  was  then  in  our 
neighborhood  an  unusual  occurrence,  a  Sabbath  visit.  My 
mother  granted  me  permission  to  go,  and  remain  as  long  as 
my  services  might  be  necessary  ;  and  at  the  close  of  the  af 
ternoon  worship,  I  went  to  the  little  house  upon  the  hill.  I 
listened  eagerly  for  some  sound  as  I  entered  the  cold  apart- 


THE    FIRST  BELLS.  105 

ment  ;  but  hearing:  none,  I  tremblingly  approached  the  low 
hard  bed.  She  was  lying  there  with  the  same  calm  look  of 
resignation,  and  whispered  a  few  words  of  welcome  as  I 
took  her  hand. 

"  You  are  sick  and  alone,"  said  I  to  her  ;  "  tell  me  what 
I  can  do  for  you." 

"  I  am  sick,"  was  her  reply,  "  but  not  alone.  He  who 
is  every  where,  and  at  all  times  present,  has  been  with  me, 
in  the  day  and  in  the  night.  I  have  prayed  to  him,  and  re 
ceived  answers  of  mercy,  love,  and  peace.  He  has  sent  His 
angel  to  call  me  home,  and  there  is  nought  for  you  to  do  but 
to  watch  the  spirit's  departure." 

I  felt  that  it  was  so  ;  yet  I  must  do  something.  I  kindled 
a  fire,  and  prepared  some  refreshment ;  and  after  she  drank 
a  bowl  of  warm  tea,  I  thought  she  looked  better.  She 
asked  me  for  her  Bible,  and  I  brought  her  the  worn  volume 
which  had  been  lying  upon  the  little  stand.  She  took  from 
it  a  soiled  and  much  worn  letter,  and  after  pressing  it  to  her 
lips,  endeavored  to  open  it — but  her  hands  were  too  weak, 
and  it  dropped  upon  the  bed.  "  No  matter,"  said  she,  as  I 
offered  to  open  it  for  her  ;  "  I  know  all  that  is  in  it,  and  in 
that  book  also.  But  I  thought  I  should  like  to  look  once 
more  upon  them  both.  I  have  read  them  daily  for  many  years 
till  now ;  but  I  do  not  mind  it — I  shall  go  soon." 

She  followed  me  with  her  eyes  as  I  laid  them  aside,  and 
then  closing  them,  her  lips  moved  as  if  in  pra3rer.  She  soon 
after  fell  into  a  slumber,  and  I  watched  her  every  breath, 
fearing  it  might  be  the  last. 

What  lessons  of  wisdom,  truth  and  fortitude  were  taught 
me  by  that  humble  bedside  !  I  had  never  before  been  with 
the  dying,  and  I  had  always  imagined  a  death-bed  to  be 
fraught  with  terror.  1  expected  that  there  were  always 
fearful  shrieks  and  appalling  groans,  as  the  soul  left  its  clay 
tenement ;  but  my  fears  were  now  dispelled.  A  sweet 
calmness  stole  into  my  inmost  soul,  as  I  watched  by  the  low 
couch  of  the  sufferer;  and  1  said,  "  If  this  be  death,  may 
my  last  end  be  like  hers." 

"But  at  length  I  saw  that  some  dark  dream  had  brought  a 
frown  upon  the  pallid  brow,  and  an  expression  of  woe 
around  the  parched  lips.  She  was  endeavoring  to  speak  or 
to  weep,  and  I  was  about  to  awaken  her,  when  a  sweet 
smile  came  like  a  flash  of  sunlight  over  her  sunken  face, 
and  I  saw  that  the  dream  of  woe  was  exchanged  for  one  of 


106  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

pleasure.  Then  she  slept  calmly,  and  I  wondered  if  the 
spirit  would  go  home  in  that  peaceful  slumber.  But  at 
length  she  awoke,  and  after  looking  upon  me  and  her  little 
room  with  a  bewildered  air,  she  heaved  a  sigh,  and  said 
mournfully,  "  I  thought  that  I  was  not  to  come  back  again, 
but  it  is  only  for  a  little  while.  I  have  had  a  pleasant  dream, 
but  not  at  first.  I  thought  once  that  I  stood  in  the  midst  of 
a  vast  multitude,  and  we  were  all  looking  up  at  one  who 
was  struggling  on  a  gallows.  O,  I  have  seen  that  sight  in 
many  a  dream  before,  but  still  I  could  not  bear  it,  and  I  said, 
*  Father,  have  mercy  ;'  and  then  I  thought  that  the  sky  roll 
ed  away  from  behind  the  gallows,  and  there  was  a  flood  of 
glory  in  the  depth  beyond ;  and  I  heard  a  voice  saying  to 
him  who  was  hanging  there,  '  This  day  shalt  thou  be  with 
me  in  Paradise!  '  And  then  the  gallows  dropped,  and  the 
multitude  around  me  vanished,  and  the  sky  rolled  together 
again  ;  but  before  it  had  quite  closed  over  that  scene  of 
beauty,  I  looked  again,  and  they  were  all  there.  Yes,"  added 
she  with  a  placid  smile,  "  I  know  that  he  is  there  with 
them;  the  three  are  in  heaven,  and  /shall  be  there  soon." 

She  ceased,  and  a  drowsy  feeling  came  over  her.  After 
a  while  she  opened  her  eyes  with  a  strange  look  of  anxiety 
and  terror.  1  went  to  her,  but  she  could  not  speak,  and  she 
pressed  my  hand  closely,  as  though  she  feared  I  would  leave 
her.  It  was  a  momentary  terror,  for  she  knew  that  the  last 
pangs  were  coming  on.  There  was  a  painful  struggle,  and 
then  came  rest  and  peaceful  confidence.  "  That  letter," 
whispered  she  convulsively  ;  and  I  went  to  the  Bible,  and 
took  from  it  the  soiled  paper  which  claimed  her  thoughts 
even  in  death.  I  laid  it  in  her  trembling  hands,  which 
clasped  it  nervously,  and  then  pressing  it  to  her  heart,  she 
fell  into  that  slumber  from  which  there  is  no  awakening. 

When  I  saw  that  she  was  indeed  gone,  I  took  the  letter, 
and  laid  it  in  its  accustomed  place  ;  and  then,  after  straight 
ening  the  limbs,  and  throwing  the  bed-clothes  over  the  stiff 
ening  form,  I  left  the  house. 

It  was  a  dazzling  scene  of  winter  beauty  that  met  my  eye 
as  I  went  forth  from  that  lowly  bed  of  death.  The  rising 
sun  threw  a  rosy  light  upon  the  crusted  snow,  and  the  earth 
was  dressed  in  a  robe  of  sparkling  jewels.  The  trees  were 
hung  with  glittering  drops,  and  the  frozen  streams  were 
dressed  in  jobes  of  brilliant  beauty. 

I  thought  of  her  upon  whose  eyes  a  brighter  morn  had  beam- 


THE    FIRST    BELLS.  107 

ed,  and  of  a  scene  of  beauty  upon  which  no  sun  should  ever 
set,  and  whose  never-fading  glories  shall  yield  a  happiness 
which  may  never  pass  away. 

I  went  home,  and  told  my  mother  what  had  passed  ;  and 
she  went,  with  some  others,  to  prepare  the  body  for  burial. 
1  went  to  look  upon  it  once  more,  the  morning  of  the  fune 
ral.  The  features  had  assumed  a  rigid  aspect,  but  the  placid 
smile  was  still  there.  The  hands  were  crossed  upon  the 
breast ;  and  as  the  form  lay  so  still  and  calm  in  its  snowy 
robes,  I  almost  wished  that  the  last  change  might  come  up 
on  me,  so  that  it  would  bring  a  peace  like  this,  which  should 
last  for  evermore. 

I  went  to  the  Bible,  and  took  from  it  that  letter.  Curi 
osity  was  strong  within  me,  and  I  opened  it.  It  was  signed 
"  John  L.,"  and  dated  from  his  prison  the  night  before  his 
execution.  But  I  did  not  read  it.  O  no  !  it  was  too  sacred. 
It  contained  those  words  of  penitence  and  affection  over 
which  her  stricken  heart  had  brooded  for  years.  It  had 
been  the  well-spring  from  which  she  had  drunk  joy  and  con 
solation,  and  derived  her  hopes  of  a  reunion  where  there 
should  be  no  more  shame,  nor  sorrow,  nor  death. 

I  could  not  destroy  that  letter  :  so  I  laid  it  beneath  the 
clasped  hands,  over  the  heart  to  which  it  had  been  pressed 
when  its  beatings  were  forever  stilled ;  and  they  buried  lier, 
too,  in  the  corner  of  the  church-yard ;  and  that  tattered  pa 
per  soon  mouldered  to  ashes  upon  her  breast.  * 

We  have  now  a  bell  upon  our  new  meeting-house  ;  and 
when  1  hear  its  Sabbath  morning  peal,  my  thoughts  are  sub 
dued  to  a  tone  fitting  for  sacred  worship  ;  for  my  mind  goes 
back  to  that  old  couple,  whom  I  was  wont  to  call  "  the  first 
bells ;  "  and  I  think  of  the  power  of  religion  to  hallow  and 
strengthen  the  affections,  to  elevate  the  mind,  and  sustain 
the  drooping  spirit,  even  in  the  saddest  and  humblet  lot  ot 
life.  SUSANNA. 


108  MIND  AMONGST  THE  SPINDLES. 

EVENING  BEFORE  PAY-DAY. 

CHAPTER     I. 

"  TO-MORROW  is  pay-day  ;  are  you  not  glad,  Rosina,  and 
Lucy?  Dorcas  is,  I  know  ;  for  she  always  loves  to  see  the 
money.  Don't  I  speak  truth  now,  Miss  Dorcas  Tilton  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  stop  your  clack,  Miss  Noisy  Impu 
dence  ;  for  I  never  heard  you  speak  anything-  that  was 
worth  an  answer.  Let  me  alone,  for  I  have  not  yet  been 
able  to  obtain  a  moment's  time  to  read  my  tract." 

"  '  My  tract ' — how  came  it  '  my  tract,'  Miss  Stingy 
Oldmaid? — for  I  can  call  names  as  fast  as  you,"  was  the 
reply  of  Elizabeth  Walters.  "  Not  because  you  bought  it, 
or  paid  for  it,  or  gave  a  thank'ee  to  those  who  did  ;  but  be 
cause  you  lay  your  clutches  upon  every  thing  you  can  get 
without  downright  stealing." 

"  Well,"  replied  Dorcas,  "  I  do  not  think  I  have  clutch 
ed  any  thing  now  which  was  much  coveted  by  anyone  else." 

"  You  are  right,  Dorcas,"  said  Rosina  Alden,  lifting  her 
mild  blue  eye  for  the  first  time  towards  the  speakers  ;  "  the 
tracts  left  here  by  the  monthly  distributors  are  thrown  about, 
and  trampled  under  foot,  even  by  those  who  most  approve 
the  sentiments  which  they  contain.  I  have  not  seen  any  one 
take  them  up  to  read  but  yourself." 

"  She  likes  them,"  interrupted  the  vivacious  Elizabeth, 
"  because  she  gets  them  for  nothing.  They  come  to  her  as 
cheap  as  the  light  of  the  sun,  or  the  dews  of  heaven  ;  and 
thus  they  are  rendered  quite  as  valuable  in  her  eyes." 

"  And  that  very  cheapness,  that  freedom  from  exertion 
and  expense  by  which  they  are  obtained,  is,  I  believe,  the 
reason  why  they  are  generally  so  little  valued,"  added  Rosi 
na.  "  People  are  apt  to  think  things  worthless  which  come 
to  them  so  easily.  They  believe  them  cheap,  if  they  are  of 
fered  cheap.  Now  I  think,  without  saying  one  word  against 
those  tracts,  that  they  would  be  more  valued,  more  perused, 
and  exert  far  more  influence,  if  they  were  only  to  be  obtain 
ed  by  payment  for  them.  If  they  do  good  now,  it  is  to  the 
publishers  only  ;  for  I  do  not  think  the  community  in  gene 
ral  is  influenced  by  them  in  vhe  slightest  degree.  If  Dorcas 
feels  more  interested  in  them  because  she  procures  them  gra-- 


EVENING    BEFORE    PAY-DAY.  109 

tuitously,  it  is  because  she  is  an  exception  to  the  general 
rule." 

"  I  like  sometimes,"  said  Dorcas,  "  to  see  the  voice  of  in 
struction,  of  warning,  of  encouragement,  and  reproof,  com 
ing  to  the  thoughtless,  ignorant,  poor  and  sinful,  as  it  did 
from  him  who  said  to  those  whom  he  sent  to  inculcate  its 
truths,  Freely  ye  have  received,  freely  give.  The  gospel  is 
an  expensive  luxury  now,  and  those  only  who  can  afford  to 
pay  their  four,  or  six,  or  more,  dollars  a  year,  can  hear  its 
truths  from  the  successors  of  him  who  lifted  his  voice  upon 
the  lonely  mountain,  and  opened  his  lips  for  council  at  the 
table  of  the  despised  publican,  or  under  the  humble  roof  of 
the  Magdalen." 

"Do  not  speak  harshly,  Dorcas,"  was  Rosina's  reply; 
"  times  have  indeed  changed  since  the  Savior  went  about 
with  not  a  shelter  for  his  head,  dispensing  the  bread  of  life 
to  all  who  would  but  reach  forth  their  hands  and  take  it ;  but 
circumstances  have  also  changed  since  then.  It  is  true,  we 
must  lay  down  our  money  for  almost  everything  we  have  ; 
but  money  is  much  more  easily  obtained  than  it  was  then. 
It  is  true,  we  cannot  procure  a  year's  seat  in  one  of  our  most 
expensive  churches  for  less  than  your  present  week's  wages; 
and  if  you  really  wish  for  the  benefits  of  regular  gospel  in 
struction,  you  must  make  for  it  as  much  of  an  exertion  as 
was  made  by  the  woman  who  went  on  her  toilsome  errand 
to  the  dep  well  of  Samaria,  little  aware  that  she  was  there 
to  receive  the  waters  of  eternal  life.  Do  not  say  that  it  was 
by  no  effort,  no  self-denial,  that  the  gospel  was  received  by 
those  who  followed  the  great  Teacher  to  the  lonely  sea-side, 
or  even  to  the  desert,  where,  weary  and  famished,  they  re 
mained  day  after  day,  beneath  the  heat  of  a  burning  sun,  and 
were  relieved  from  hunger  but  by  a  miracle.  And  who  so 
poor  now,  or  so  utterly  helpless,  that  they  cannot  easily  ob 
tain  the  record  of  those  words  which  fell  so  freely  upon  the 
ears  of  the  listening  multitudes  of  Judeal  If  there  ore  such, 
there  are  societies  which  will  cheerfully  relieve  their  wants, 
if  application  be  made.  And  these  tracts,  which  come  to  us 
with  scarcely  the  trouble  of  stretching  forth  our  hands  for 
their  reception,  are  doubtless  meant  for  good." 

"  Well,  Rosina,"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  "if  you  hold  out 
a  little  longer,  I  think  Dorcas  will  have  no  reason  to  com 
plain  but  that  she  gets  her  preaching  cheap  enough  ;  but  as 
1,  for  one,  am  entirely  willing  to  pay  for  mine,  you  may  be 


110  MIND     AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

excused  for  the  present ;  and  those  who  wish  to  hear  a  theo 
logical  discussion,  can  go  and  listen  to  the  very  able  ex 
pounders  of  the  Baptist  and  Universalist  faiths,  who  are  just 
now  holding  forth  in  the  other  chamber.  As  Dorcas  hears 
no  preaching  but  that  which  comes  as  cheap  as  the  light  of 
the  sun,  she  will  probably  like  to  go  ;  and  do  not  be  offended 
with  me,  Rosina,  if  I  tell  you  plainly,  that  you  are  not  the 
one  to  rebuke  her.  What  sacrifice  have  you  made  ?  How 
much  have  you  spent  ?  When  have  you  ever  given  anything 
for  the  support  of  the  gospel  ?  " 

A  tear  started  to  Rosina's  eye,  and  the  color  deepened  up 
on  her  cheek.  Her  lip  quivered,  but  she  remained  silent. 

"  Well,"  said  Lucy  to  Elizabeth,  "  all  this  difficulty  is  the 
effect  of  the  very  simple  question  you  asked ;  and  I  will  an 
swer  for  one,  that  I  arn  glad  to-morrow  is  pay-day.  Pray 
what  shall  you  get  that  is  new,  Elizabeth  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  get  one  of  those  damask  silk  shawls  which 
are  now  so  fashionable.  How  splendid  it  will  look  !  Let 
me  see  ;  this  is  a  five  weeks'  payment,  and  I  have  earned 
about  two  dollars  per  week  ;  and  so  have  you,  and  Rosina  ; 
and  Dorcas  has  earned  a  great  deal  more,  for  she  has  extra 
work.  Pray  what  new  thing  shall  you  get,  Dorcas  ?  "  add 
ed  she,  laughing. 

"  She  will  get  a  new  bank  book,  I  suppose,"  replied  Lu 
cy.  "  She  has  already  deposited  in  her  own  name  five  hun 
dred  dollars,  and  now  she  has  got  a  book  in  the  name  of  her 
little  niece,  and  I  do  not  know  but  she  will  soon  procure  an 
other.  She  almost  worships  them,  and  Sundays  she  stays 
here  reckoning  up  her  interest  while  we  are  at  meeting." 

"  I  think  it  is  far  better,"  retorted  Dorcas,  to  stay  at 
home,  than  to  go  to  meeting,  as  Elizabeth  does,  to  show  her 
fine  clothes.  I  do  not  make  a  mockery  of  public  worship  to 
God." 

"  There,  Lizzy,  you  must  take  that,  for  you  deserved  it," 
said  Lucy  to  her  friend.  "  You  know  you  do  spend  almost 
all  your  money  in  dress." 

"  Well,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  I  shall  sow  all  my  wild  oats 
now,  and  when  I  am  an  old  maid  I  will  be  as  steady,  but 
not  quite  so  stingy  as  Dorcas.  I  will  get  a  bank  book,  and 
trot  down  Merrimack  street  as  often  as  she  does,  and  every 
body  will  say,  '  what  a  remarkable  change  in  Elizabeth  Wal 
ters  !  She  used  to  spend  all  her  wages  as  fast  as  they  were 
paid  her,  but  now  she  puts  them  in  the  bank.  She  will  be 


EVENING    BEFORE    PAY-DAY.  Ill 

quite  a  fortune  for  some  one,  and  I  have  no  doubt  she  will 
get  married  for  what  she  has,  if  not  for  what  she  is.'  But  1 
cannot  begin  now,  and  I  don't  see  how  you  can,  Rosina." 

"  I  have  not  begun,"  replied  Rosina,  in  a  low  sorrowful 
tone. 

"  Why  yes,  you  have  ;  you  are  as  miserly  now  as  Dorcas 
herself ;  and  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  what  you  may  be 
come.  Now  tell  me  if  you  will  not  get  a  new  gown  and 
bonnet,  and  go  to  meeting?" 

"  I  cannot,"  replied  Rosina,  decidedly. 

"  Well,  do,  if  you  have  any  mercy  on  us,  buy  a  new  gown 
to  wear  in  the  Mill,  for  your  old  one  is  so  shabby.  When 
calico  is  nine-pence  a  yard,  I  do  think  it  is  mean  to  wear 
such  an  old  thing  as  that ;  besides,  I  should  not  wonder  if 
it  should  soon  drop  off  your  back." 

"  Will  it  not  last  me  one  month  more  ?"  and  Rosina  began 
to  mend  the  tattered  dress  with  a  very  wistful  countenance. 

11  Why,  I  somewhat  doubt  it ;  but  at  all  events,  you  must 
have  another  pair  of  shoes." 

"  These  are  but  just  beginning  to  let  in  the  water,"  said 
Rosina ;  "  I  think  they  must  last  me  till  another  pay-day." 

"  Well,  if  you  have  a  fever  or  consumption,  Dorcas  may 
take  care  of  you,  for  I  will  not ;  but  what,"  continued  the 
chattering  Elizabeth,  "  shall  you  buy  that  is  new,  Lucy  ?" 

"Oh,  a  pretty  new,  though  cheap,  bonnet ;  and  I  shall  also 
pay  my  quarter's  pew-rent,  and  a  year's  subscription  to  the 
'  Lowell  Offering  ;'  and  that  is  all  that  I  shall  spend.  You 
have  laughed  much  about  old  maids  ;  but  it  was  an  old  maid 
who  took  care  of  me  when  I  first  came  to  Lowell,  and  she 
taught  me  to  lay  aside  half  of  every  month's  wages.  It  is  a 
rule  from  which  I  have  never  deviated,  and  thus  I  have  quite 
a  pretty  sum  at  interest,  and  have  never  been  in  want  of  any 
thing." 

"  Well,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  will  you  go  out  to-night  with 
me,  and  we  will  look  at  the  bonnets,  and  also  the  damask 
silk  shawls?  I  wish  to  know  the  prices.  Howl  wish  to-day 
had  been  pay-day,  and  then  I  need  not  have  gone  out  with 
an  empty  purse." 

"  Well,  Lizzy,  you  know  that '  to-morrow  is  pay-day,'  do 
you  not?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  and  the  beautiful  pay-master  will  come  in,  rat 
tling  his  coppers  so  nicely." 

"Beautiful!"  exclaimed  Lucy;  "do  you  call  our  pay 
master  beautiful?  " 


112  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

"  Why,  I  do  not  know  that  he  would  look  beautiful,  if  he 
was  coming  to  cut  my  head  off;  but  really,  that  money-box 
makes  him  look  delightfully." 

"  Well,  Lizzy,  it  does  make  a  great  difference  in  his 
appearance,  I  know  ;  but  if  we  are  going  out  to-night,  we 
must  be  in  a  hurry." 

"  If  you  go  by  the  post-office,  do  ask  if  there  is  a  letter 
for  me,"  said  Rosina. 

"Oh,  I  hate  to  go  near  the  post-office  in  the  evening ;  the 
girls  act  as  wild  as  so  many  Caribbee  Indians.  Sometimes 
I  have  to  stand  there  an  hour  on  the  ends  of  my  toes,  stretch 
ing  my  neck,  and  sticking  out  my  eyes  ;  and  when  I  think  I 
have  been  pommeled  and  jostled  long  enough,  I  begin  to 
'  set  upon  my  own  hook,'  and  I  push  away  the  heads  that 
have  been  at  the  list  as  if  they  were  committing  it  all  to 
memory,  and  I  send  my  elbows  right  and  left  in  the  most  ap 
proved  style,  till  I  find  myself  '  master  of  the  field.  ' ' 

"  Oh,  Lizzy  !  you  know  better ;  how  can  you  do  so?  " 

"  Why,  Lucy,  pray  tell  me  what  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  go  away,  if  there  is  a  crowd  ;  or  if  I  feel  very  anxious 
to  know  whether  there  is  a  letter  for  me,  the  worst  that  I  do 
is  to  try  '  sliding  and  gliding. '  I  dodge  between  folks,  or  slip 
through  them,  till  I  get  waited  upon.  But  I  know  that  we 
all  act  worse  there  than  anywhere  else ;  and  if  the  post 
master  speaks  a  good  word  for  the  factory  girls,  I  think  it 
must  come  against  his  conscience,  unless  he  has  seen  them 
somewhere  else  than  in  the  office." 

"Well,  well,  we  must  hasten  along,"  said  Elizabeth; 
"  and  stingy  as  Rosina  is,  I  suppose  she  will  be  willing  to 
pay  for  a  letter ;  so  I  will  buy  her  one,  if  I  can  get  it.  Good 
evening,  ladies,"  continued  she,  tying  her  bonnet;  and  she 
hurried  after  Lucy,  \vho  was  already  down  the  stairs,  leaving 
Dorcas  to  read  her  tract  at  leisure,  and  Rosina  to  patch  her 
old  calico  gown,  with  none  to  torment  her. 


CHAPTER  n. 

"  Two  letters !"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  as  she  burst  into 
the  chamber,  holding  them  up,  as  little  Goody  in  the  story 
book  held  up  her  "  two  shoes ;  "  "  two  letters  !  one  for  you, 
Rosina,  and  the  other  is  for  me.  Only  look  at  it!  It  is  from 
a  cousin  of  mine,  who  has  never  lived  out  of  sight  of  the 


EVENING    BEFORE    PAY-DAY.  113 

Green  Mountains.  I  do  believe,  notwithstanding  all  that  is 
said  about  the  ignorance  of  the  factory  girls,  that  the  letters 
which  go  out  of  Lowell  look  as  well  as  those  which  come 
into  it.  See  here  :  up  in  the  left  hand  corner,  the  directien 
commences,  '  Miss  ; '  one  step  lower  is  '  Elizabeth  ;  '  then 
down  another  step,  '  Walters.'  Another  step  brings  us  down 
to  *  Lowell  ;  '  one  more  is  the  '  City ;  '  and  down  in  the 
right  hand  corner  is  '  Massachusetts,'  at  full  length.  Quite 
a  regular  stair-case,  if  the  steps  had  been  all  of  an  equal 
width.  Miss  Elizabeth  Walters,  Lowell  City,  Massachu 
setts,  anticipates  much  edification  from  the  perusal  thereof/' 
said  she,  as  she  broke  the  seal. 

*'  Oh,  I  must  tell  you  an  anecdote,"  said  Lucy.  "  While 
we  were  waiting  there,!  saw  one  girl  push  her  face  into  the 
little  aperture,  and  ask  if  there  was  a  paper  for  her  ;  and 
the  clerk  asked  if  it  was  a  transient  paper.  '  A  what?  '  said 
she.  '  A  transient  paper,'  he  repeated.  '  Why,  I  do  n't 
know  what  paper  it  is,'  was  the  reply ;  *  sometimes  our  folks 
send  me  one,  and  sometimes  another.'  ' 

Dorcas  and  Elizabeth  laughed,  and  the  latter  exclaimed, 
"  Girls,  I  am  not  so  selfish  as  to  be  unwilling  that  you  should 
share  my  felicity.  Should  you  not  like  to  see  my  letter?  " 
and  she  held  it  up  before  them.  "It  is  quite  a  contrast  to 
our  Rosina's  delicate  Italian  penmanship,  although  she  is  a 
factory  girl." 


"  DEAR  COUSIN. — I  write  this  to  let  you  know  that  I  am 
well,  and  hope  you  are  enjoying  the  same  great  blessing. 
Father  and  Mother  are  well  too.  Uncle  Joshua  is  sick  of 
the  information  of  the  brain.  We  think  he  will  die,  but  he 
says  that  he  shall  live  his  days  out.  We  have  not  had  a  let 
ter  from  you  since  you  went  to  Lowell.  I  send  this  by  Mary 
Twining,  an  old  friend  of  mine.  She  works  upon  the  Ap- 
pletown  Corporation.  She  will  put  this  in  the  post-office, 
because  we  do  not  know  where  you  work.  I  hope  you  will 
go  and  see  her.  We  have  had  a  nice  time  making  maple 
sugar  this  spring.  I  wish  you  had  been  with  us.  When 
you  are  married,  you  must  come  with  your  husband.  Write 
to  me  soon,  and  if  you  don't  have  a  chance  to  send  it  by 
private  conveyance,  drop  it  into  the  post-office.  I  shall  get 
it,  for  the  mail-stage  passes  through  the  village  twice  a  week. 


IK  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

'  I  want  to  see  you  more,  1  think, 
Than  I  can  write  with  pen  and  ink  j 
But  when  I  shall,  I  cannot  tell — 
At  present  I  must  wish  you  well. 

'  Your  loving  consin, 

1  JUDITH  WALTERS.' 

"  Well,"  said  Elizabeth,  drawing  a  long  breath,  "I  do 
not  think  my  loving  cousin  will  ever  die  of  the  '  informa 
tion  of  the  brain  ;  '  but  if  it  should  get  there,  I  do  not  know 
what  might  happen. — But,  Rosina,  from  whom  is  your  let 
ter  ?  " 

"  My  mother,"  said  Rosina  ;  and  she  seated  herself  at 
the  little  light-stand,  with  a  sheet  of  paper,  pen,  and  ink 
stand. 

"  Why,  you  do  not  intend  to  answer  it  to-night?  " 

"  I  must  commence  it  to-night,"  replied  Rosina,  "  and 
finish  it  to-morrow  night,  and  carry  it  to  the  post-office.  I 
cannot  write  a  whole  letter  in  one  evening." 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  1  "  said  Dorcas. 

"  My  twin-sister  is  very  sick,"  replied  Rosina;  and  the 
tears  she  could  no  longer  restrain  gushing  freely  forth. 
The  girls,  who  had  before  been  in  high  spirits,  over  cousin 
Judy's  letter,  were  subdued  in  an  instant.  Oh,  how  quick 
is  the  influence  of  sympathy  for  grief!  Not  another  word 
was  spoken.  The  letter  was  put  away  in  silence,  and  the 
girls  glided  noiselessly  around  the  room,  as  they  prepared  to 
retire  to  rest. 

Shall  we  take  a  peep  at  Rosina's  letter?  It  may  remove 
•some  false  impressions  respecting  her  character,  and  many 
are  probably  suffering  injustice  from  erroneous  opinions, 
when,  if  all  could  be  known,  the  very  conduct  which  has 
exposed  them  to  censure  would  excite  approbation.  Her 
widowed  mother's  letter  was  the  following  : — 

"  MY  DEAR  CHILD. — Many  thanks  for  your  last  letter, 
and  many  more  for  the  present  it  contained.  It  was  very 
acceptable,  for  it  reached  me  when  I  had  not  a  cent  in  the 
world.  I  fear  you  deprive  yourself  of  necessaries  to  send  me 
30  much.  But  all  you  can  easily  spare  will  be  gladly  received. 
I  have  as  much  employment  at  tailoring  as  I  can  find  time  to 
do,  and  sometimes  I  sit  up  all  night,  when  I  cannot  accom 
plish  my  self-allotted  task  during  the  day. 


EVENING    BEFORE    PAY-DAY.  115 

"  I  have  delayed  my  reply  to  your  letter,  because  I  wish 
ed  to  know  what  the  doctors  really  thought  of  your  sister 
Marcia.  They  consulted  to-day,  and  tell  me  there  is  no  hope. 
The  suspense  is  now  over,  but  I  thought  I  was  better  pre 
pared  for  the  worst  than  I  am.  She  wished  me  to  tell  her 
what  the  doctors  said.  At  length  I  yielded  to  her  importu 
nities.  '  Oh,  mother,'  said  she,  with  a  sweet  smile,  *  I  am 
so  glad  they  have  told  you,  for  I  have  known  it  for  a  long 
time.  You  must  write  to  Rosina  to  come  and  see  me  before 
I  die.'  Do  as  you  think  best,  my  dear,  about  coming. 
You  know  how  glad  we  would,  be  to  see  you.  But 
if  you  cannot  come,  do  not  grieve  too  much  about  it. — 
Marcia  must  soon  die,  and  you,  I  hope,  will  live  many 
years ;  but  the  existence  which  you  commenced  together 
here,  I  feel  assured  will  be  continued  in  a  happier  world. 
The  interruption  which  will  now  take  place  will  be  short, 
in  comparison  with  the  life  itself  which  shall  have  no  end. 
And  yet  it  is  hard  to  think  that  one  so  young,  so  good,  and 
lovely,  is  so  soon  to  lie  in  the  silent  grave.  While  the  blue 
skies  of  heaven  are  daily  growing  more  softly  beautiful,  and 
the  green  things  of  earth  are  hourly  putting  forth  a  brighter 
verdure,  she,  too,  like  the  lovely  creatures  of  nature,  is 
constantly  acquiring  some  new  charm,  to  fit  her  for  that 
world  which  she  will  so  soon  inhabit.  Death  is  coming, 
with  his  severest  tortures,  but  she  arrays  her  person  in 
bright  loveliness  at  his  approach,  and  her  spirit  is  robed  in 
graces  which  well  may  fit  her  for  that  angel-band,  which 
she  is  so  soon  to  join. 

"lam  now  writing  by  her  bed-side.  She  is  sleeping 
soundly  now,  but  there  is  a  heavy  dew  upon  the  cheek, 
brow,  and  neck  of  the  tranquil  sleeper.  A  rose — it  is  one 
of  your  roses,  Rosina — is  clasped  in  her  transparent  hand  : 
and  one  rosy  pedal  has  somehow  dropped  upon  her  temple. 
It  breaks  the  line  which  the  blue  vein  has  so  distinctly 
traced  on  the  clear  white  brow.  I  will  take  it  away,  and 
enclose  it  in  the  letter.  When  you  see  it,  perhaps  it  will 
bring  more  vividly  to  memory  *  the  days  when  you  and 
Marcia  frolicked  together  among  the  wild  rose  bushes. — 
Those  which  you  transplanted  to  the  front  of  the  house 
have  grown  astonishingly.  Marcia  took  care  of  them  as 
long  as  she  could  po  out  of  doors  ;  for  she  wished  to  do 
something  to  show  her  gratitude  to  you.  Now  that  she  can 
go  among  them  no  longer,  she  watches  them  through  the 


116  MIND    AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 

window,  and  the  little  boys  bring  her  every  morning  the 
most  beautiful  blossoms.  She  enjoys  their  beauty  and 
fragrance,  as  she  does  everything  which  is  reserved  for  her 
enjoyment.  There  is  but  one  thought  which  casts  a  shade 
upon  that  tranquil  spirit,  and  it  is  that  she  is  such  a  helpless 
burden  upon  us.  The  last  time  that  she  received  a  compen 
sation  for  some  slight  article  which  she  had  exerted  herself 
to  complete,  she  took  the  money  and  sent  Willy  for  some 
salt.  '  Now,  mother,'  said  she,  with  the  arch  smile  which 
so  often  illuminated  her  countenance  in  the  days  of  health, 
'  Now,  mother  you  cannot  say  that  I  do  not  earn  my  salt.' 

"  But  I  must  soon  close,  for  in  a  short  time  she  will 
awaken,  and  suffer  for  hours  from  her  agonizing  cough. — 
No  one  need  tell  me  now  that  a  consumption  makes  an  easy 
path  to  the  grave.  I  watched  too  long  by  your  father's  bed 
side,  and  have  witnessed  too  minutely  all  of  Marcia's  suffer 
ings  to  be  persuaded  of  this. 

"  But  she  breathes  less  softly  now,  and  I  must  hasten.  I 
have  said  little  of  the  other  members  of  the  family,  for  I 
knew  you  would  like  to  hear  particularly  about  her.  The 
little  boys  are  well — they  are  obedient  to  me,  and  kind  to 
their  sister.  Answer  as  soon  as  you  receive  this,  for  Mar 
cia's  sake,  unless  you  come  and  visit  us. 

"  And  now,  hoping  that  this  will  find  you  in  good  health, 
as,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  it  leaves  me,  (a  good  though 
an  old-fashioned  manner  of  closing  a  letter,)  I  remain  as 
ever, 

"  Your  affectionate  mother." 

Rosina's  reply  was  as  follows  : — 

"  DEAR  MOTHER. — I  have  just  received  your  long-expect 
ed  letter,  and  have  seated  myself  to  commence  an  answer, 
for  I  cannot  go  home. 

"  I  do  wish  very  much  to  see  you  all,  especially  dear 
Marcia.  once  more ;  but  it  is  not  best.  I  know  you  think 
so,  or  you  would  have  urged  my  return.  I  think  1  shall  feel 
more  contented  here,  earning  comforts  for  my  sick  sister 
and  necessaries  for  you,  than  I  should  be  there,  and 
unable  to  relieve  a  want.  '  To-morrow  is  pay-day,'  and  my 
earnings,  amounting  to  ten  dollars,  I  shall  enclose  in  this  let 
ter.  Do  not  think  I  am  suffering  for  anything,  for  I  get  a  long 
very  well.  But  I  am  obliged  to  be  extremely  prudent,  and 


EVENING    BEFORE    PAY-DAY.  117 

the  girls  here  call  me  miserly.     Oh,  mother  !  it  is  hard  to  be 
so  misunderstood  ;  but  I  cannot  tell  them  all. 

"  But  your  kind  letters  are  indeed  a  solace  to  me,  for  they 
assure  me  that  the  mother  whom  I  have  always  loved  and 
reverenced  approves  of  my  conduct.  I  shall  feel  happier  to 
morrow  night,  when  I  enclose  that  bill  to  you,  than  my 
room-mates  can  be  in  the  far  different  disposal  of  theirs. 

"  What  a  blessing  it  is  that  we  can  send  money  to  our 
friends  ;  and  indeed  what  a  blessing  that  we  can  send  them 
a  letter.  Last  evening  you  was  penning  the  lines  which  I 
have  just  perused,  in  my  far-distant  home  ;  and  not  twenty- 
four  hours  have  elapsed  since  the  rose-leaf  before  me  was 
resting  on  the  brow  of  my  sister  ;  but  it  is  now  ten  o'clock, 
and  I  must  bid  you  good  night,  reserving  for  to-morrow 
evening  the  remainder  of  my  epistle,  which  I  shall  address 
to  Marcia." 

It  was  long  before  Rosina  slept  that  night ;  and  when  she 
did,  she  was  troubled  at  first  by  fearful  dreams.  But  at 
length  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  approaching  the  quiet 
home  of  her  childhood.  She  did  not  remember  where  she 
had  been,  but  had  a  vague  impression  that  it  was  in  some 
scene  of  anxiety,  sorrow,  and  fatigue  ;  and  she  was  longing 
to  reach  that  little  cot,  where  it  appeared  so  still  and  happy. 
She  thought  the  sky  was  very  clear  above  it,  and  the  yellow 
sunshine  lay  softly  on  the  hills  and  fields  around  it.  She  saw 
her  rose-bushes  blooming  around  it,  like  a  little  wilderness 
of  blossoms  ;  and  while  she  was  admiring  their  increased 
size  and  beauty,  the  door  was  opened,  and  a  body  arrayed  in 
the  snowy  robes  of  the  grave,  was  carried  beneath  the  rose 
bushes.  They  bent  to  a  slight  breeze  which  swept  above 
them,  and  a  shower  of  snowy  petals  fell  upon  the  marble 
face  and  shrouded  form.  It  was  as  if  nature  had  paid  this 
last  tribute  of  gratitude  to  one  who  had  been  one  of  her  tru 
est  and  loveliest  votaries. 

Rosina  started  forward  that  she  might  remove  the  fragrant 
covering,  and  imprint  one  last  kiss  upon  the  fair  cold  brow  ; 
but  a  hand  was  laid  upon  her,  and  a  well-known  voice 
repeated  her  name.  And  then  she  started,  for  she  heard 
the  bell  ring  loudly ;  and  she  opened  her  eyes  as  Dorcas 
again  cried  out,  "  Rosina,  the  second  bell  is  ringing." — 
Elizabeth  and  Lucy  were  already  dressed,  and  they  exclaim 
ed  at  the  same  moment,  "  Remember,  Rosina,  that  to-day  is 
pay-day.'11  LUCINDA. 

10 


118  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 


THE  INDIAN  PLEDGE. 

ON  the  door-steps  of  a  cottage  in  the  land  of  "steady 
habits,"  some  ninety  or  an  hundred  years  since,  might,  on  a 
soft  evening  in  June,  have  been  seen  a  sturdy  young  farmer, 
preparing  his  scythes  for  the  coming  hay-making  season. 
So  intent  was  he  upon  his  work  that  he  heeded  not  the  ap 
proach  of  a  tall  Indian,  accoutred  for  a  hunting  expedition, 
until,  "  Will  you  give  an  unfortunate  hunter  some  supper 
and  lodging  for  the  night?"  in  a  tone  of  supplication, 
caught  his  ear. 

The  farmer  raised  his  eyes  from  his  work,  and  darting 
fury  from  beneath  a  pair  of  shaggy  eyebrows,  he  exclaimed, 
"Heathen,  Indian  dog,  begone!  you  shall  have  nothing 
here." 

"  But  I  am  very  hungry,"  said  the  Indian;  "  give  only 
a  crust  of  bread  and  a  bone  to  strengthen  me  on  my 
journey." 

"  Get  you  gone,  you  heathen  dog,"  said  the  farmer  ;  "  I 
have  nothing  for  you." 

"  Give  me  but  a  cup  of  cold  water,"  said  the  Indian, 
"  for  I  am  very  faint." 

This  appeal  was  not  more  successful  than  the  others. — 
Reiterated  abuse,  and  to  be  told  to  drink  when  he  came  to  a 
river,  was  all  he  could  obtain  from  one  who  bore  the  name 
of  Christian  !  But  the  supplicating  appeal  fell  not  unheed 
ed  on  the  ear  of  one  of  finer  mould  and  more  sensibility. 
The  farmer's  youthful  bride  heard  the  whole,  as  she  sat 
hushing  her  infant  to  rest ;  and  from  the  open  casement  she 
watched  the  poor  Indian  until  she  saw  his  dusky  form  sink, 
apparently  exhausted,  on  the  ground  at  no  great  distance 
from  her  dwelling.  Ascertaining  that  her  husband  was  too 
busied  with  his  work  to  notice  her,  she  was  soon  at  the 
Indian's  side,  with  a  pitcher  of  milk  and  a  napkin  filled  with 
bread  and  cheese.  "  Will  my  red  brother  slake  his  thirst 
with  some  milk  1  "  said  this  angel  of  mercy  ;  and  as  he  es 
sayed  to  comply  with  her  invitation,  she  untied  the  napkin, 
and  bade  him  eat  and  be  refreshed. 

"  Cantantowwit  protect  the  white  dove  from  the  pounces 


THE    INDIAN    PLEDGE. 


119 


of  the  eagle,"  said  the  Indian  ;  "  for  her  sake  the  unfledged 
young  shall  be  safe  in  their  nest,  and  her  red  brother  will 
not  seek  to  be  revenged." 

lie  then  drew  a  bunch  of  feathers  from  his  bosom,  and 
plucking  one  of  the  longest,  gave  it  to  her,  and  said, 
"  When  the  white  dove's  mate  flies  over  the  Indians'  hunt 
ing  grounds,  bid  him  wear  this  on  his  head."  * 

The  summer  had  passed  away.  Harvest-time  had  come 
and  gone,  and  preparations  had  been  made  for  a  hunting  ex 
cursion  by  the  neighbors.  Our  young  farmer  was  to  be  one 
of  the  party ;  but  on  the  eve  of  their  departure  he  had 
strange  misgivings  relative  to  his  safety.  No  doubt  his 
imagination  was  haunted  by  the  form  of  the  Indian,  whom, 
in  the  preceding  summer  he  had  treated  so  harshly. 

The  morning  that  witnessed  the  departure  of  the  hunters 
was  one  of  surpassing  beauty.  Not  a  cloud  was  to  be  seen, 
save  one  that  gathered  on  the  brow  of  Ichabod  (our  young 
farmer),  as  he  attempted  to  tear  a  feather  from  his  hunting- 
cap,  which  was  sewed  fast  to  it.  His  wife  arrested  his  hand, 
while  she  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  a  slight  quiver  agitated 
his  lips  as  he  said,  "  Well,  Mary,  if  you  think  this  feather 
will  protect  me  from  the  arrows  of  the  red-skins,  I'll  e'en 
let  it  remain."  Ichabod  donned  his  cap,  shouldered  his 
rifle,  and  the  hunters  were  soon  on  their  way  in  quest  of 
game. 

The  day  wore  away  as  was  usual  with  people  on  a  like 
excursion  ;  and  at  nightfall  they  took  shelter  in  the  den  of 
a  bear,  whose  flesh  served  for  supper,  and  whose  skin  spread 
on  bruin's  bed  of  leaves,  pillowed  their  heads  through  a  long 
November  night. 

With  the  first  dawn  of  morning,  the  hunters  left  their 
rude  shelter  and  resumed  their  chase.  Ichabod,  by  some 
mishap,  soon  separated  from  his  companions,  and  in  trying 
to  join  them  got  bewildered.  He  wandered  all  day  in  the 
forest,  and  just  as  the  sun  was  receding  from  sight,  and  he 
was  about  sinking  down  in  despair,  he  espied  an  Indian  hut. 
With  mingled  emotions  of  hope  and  fear,  he  bent  his  steps 
towards  it ;  and  meeting  an  Indian  at  the  door,  he  asked  him 
to  direct  him  to  the  nearest  white  settlement. 

44  If  the  weary  hunter  will  rest  till  morning,  the  eagle  will 
show  him  the  way  to  the  nest  of  his  white  dove,"  said  the 
Indian,  as  he  took  Ichabod  by  the  hand  and  led  him  within 
his  hut.  The  Indian  gave  him  a  supper  of  parched  corn 


120  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

and  venison,  and  spread  the  skins  of  animals,  which  he  had 
taken  in  hunting,  for  his  bed. 

The  light  had  hardly  began  to  streak  the  east,  when  the 
Indian  awoke  Ichabod.  and  after  a  slight  repast,  the  twain 
started  for  the  settlement  of  the  whites.  Late  in  the  after 
noon,  as  they  emerged  from  a  thick  wood,  Ichabod  with  joy 
espied  his  home.  A  heartfelt  ejaculation  had  scarce  escaped 
his  lips,  when  the  Indian  stepped  before  him.  and  turning 
around,  stared  him  full  in  the  face,  and  inquired  if  he  had 
any  recollection  of  a  previous  acquaintance  with  his  red 
brother.  Upon  being  answered  in  the  negative,  the  Indian 
said,  "  Five  moons  ago,  when  I  was  faint  and  weary,  you 
called  me  an  Indian  dog,  and  drove  me  from  your  door.  I 
might  now  be  revenged  ;  but  Caniantowwit  bids  me  tell  you 
to  go  home  ;  and  hereafter,  when  you  see  a  red  man  in  need 
of  kindness,  do  to  him  as  you  have  been  done  by.  Fare 
well." 

The  Indian  having  said  this,  turned  upon  his  heel,  and 
was  soon  out  of  sight.  Ichabod  wras  abashed.  He  went 
home  purified  in  heart,  having  learned  a  lesson  of  Christiani 
ty  from  an  untutored  savage.  TABITHA. 


THE  FIRST  DISH  OF  TEA. 

TEA  holds  a  conspicuous  place  in  the  history  of  our  coun 
try ;  but  it  is  no  part  of  my  business  to  offer  comments,  or 
to  make  any  remarks  upon  the  spirit  of  olden  time,  which 
prompted  those  patriotic  defenders  of  their  country's  rights 
to  destroy  so  much  tea,  to  express  their  indignation  at  the 
oppression  of  their  fellow  citizens.  '  I  only  intend  to  inform 
the  readers  of  the  "  Lowell  Offering  "  that  the  first  dish  of 
tea  which  was  ever  made  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  was  made 
by  Abigail  Van  Dame,  my  great-great-grandmother. 

Abigail  was  early  in  life  left  an  orphan,  and  the  care  of 
her  tender  years  devolved  upon  her  aunt  Tovvnsend,  to 
whose  store  fate  had  never  added  any  of  the  smiling  blessings 
of  Providence  ;  and  as  a  thing  in  course,  Abigail  became  not 
only  the  adopted,  but  also  the  well-beloved,  child  of  her  un- 


THE    FIRST    DISH    OF    TEA.  121 

cle  and  aunt  Townsend.  They  gave  her  every  advantage 
for  an  education  which  the  town  of  Portsmouth  afforded  ;  and 
at  the  age  of  seventeen  she  was  acknowledged  to  be  the 
most  accomplished  young  lady  in  Portsmouth. 

Many  were  the  worshippers  who  bowed  at  the  shrine  of 
beauty  and  learning  at  the  domicile  of  Alphonzo  Townsend  ; 
but  his  lovely  niece  was  unmoved  by  their  petitions,  much  to 
the  perplexity  of  her  aunt,  who  often  charged  Abigail  with 
carrying  an  obdurate  heart  in  her  bosom.  In  vain  did  Mrs. 
Townsend  urge  her  niece  to  accept  the  offers  of  a  young 
student  of  law  ;  and  equally  vain  were  her  efforts  to  gain  a 
clue  to  the  cause  of  the  refusal,  until,  by  the  return  of  an 
East  India  Merchantman,  Mr.  Townsend  received  a  small 
package  for  his  niece,  and  a  letter  from  Captain  Lowd,  ask 
ing  his  consent  to  their  union,  which  he  wished  might  take 
place  the  following  year,  when  he  should  return  to  Ports 
mouth. 

Abigail's  package  contained  a  Chinese  silk  hat,  the  crown 
of  which  was  full  of  Bohea  tea.  A  letter  informed  her  that 
the  contents  of  the  hat  was  the  ingredient,  which,  boiled 
in  water,  made  what  was  called  the  "  Chinese  soup." 

Abigail,  anxious  to  ascertain  the  flavor  of  a  beverage,  of 
which  she  had  heard  much,  put  the  brass  skillet  over  the 
coals,  poured  in  two  quarts  of  water,  and  added  thereto  a 
pint  bason  full  of  tea,  and  a  gill  of  molasses,  and  let  it  sim 
mer  an  hour.  She  then  strained  it  through  a  linen  cloth, 
and  in  some  pewter  basins  set  it  around  the  supper  table,  in 
lieu  of  bean-porridge,  which  was  the  favorite  supper  of  the 
epicures  of  the  olden  time. 

Uncle,  aunt,  and  Abigail,  seated  themselves  around  the 
little  table,  and  after  crumbling  some  brown  bread  into  their 
basins,  commenced  eating  the  Chinese  soup.  The  first 
spoonful  set  their  faces  awry,  but  the  second  was  past  endu 
rance  ;  and  Mrs.  Townsend  screamed  with  fright,  for  she 
imagined  that  she  had  tasted  poison.  The  doctor  was  sent 
for,  who  administered  a  powerful  emetic  ;  and  the  careful 
aunt  persuaded  her  niece  to  consign  her  hat  and  its  contents 
t)the  vault  of  an  outbuilding. 

When  Capt.  Lowd  returned  to  Portsmouth,  he  brought- 
with  him  a  chest  of  tea,  a  China  tea-set,  and  a  copper  tea 
kettle,  and  instructed  Abigail  in  the  art  of  tea-making  and 
tea  drinking,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  her  aunt  Townsend, 
who  could  never  believe  that  Chinese  soup  was  naif  so  gjuod 
as  bean-porridge. 


122  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

The  first  dish  of  tea  afforded  a  fund  of  amusement  for 
Capt.  Lowd  and  lady,  and  I  hope  the  narrative  will  be  ac 
ceptable  to  modern  tea-drinkers.  TABITHA. 


LEISURE  HOURS  OF  THE  MILL  GIRLS. 


THE  leisure  hours  of  the  mill  girls — how  shall  they  be 
spent  1  As  Ann,  Bertha,  Charlotte,  Emily,  and  others,  spent 
theirs1?  as  we  spend  ours  ?  Let  us  decide. 

No.  4  was  to  stop  a  day  for  repairs.  Ann  sat  at  her  win 
dow  until  she  tired  of  watching  passers-by.  She  then  start 
ed  up  in  search  of  one  idle  as  herself,  for  a  compaion  in  a 
saunter.  She  called  at  the  chamber  opposite  her  own.  The 
room  was  sadly  disordered.  The  bed  was  not  made,  although 
it  was  past  nine  o'clock.  In  making  choice  of  dresses,  col 
lars,  aprons,  pro  tempore,  some  half  dozen  of  each  had  been 
taken  from  their  places,  and  there  they  were,  lying  about  on 
chairs,  trunks,  and  bed,  together  with  mill  clothes  just  ta 
ken  off.  Bertha  had  not  combed  her  hair  ;  but  Charlotte 
gave  hers  a  hasty  dressing  before  "  going  out  shopping;" 
and  there  lay  brush,  combs,  and  hair  on  the  table.  There 
were  a  few  pictures  hanging  about  the  walls,  such  as  "  You 
are  the  prettiest  Rose,"  "  The  Kiss,"  "  Man  Friday,"  and 
a  miserable,  soiled  drawing  of  a  "  Cottage  Girl."  Bertha 
blushed  when  Ann  entered.  She  was  evidently  ashamed  of 
the  state  of  her  room,  and  vexed  at  Ann's  intrusion.  Ann 
understood  the  reason  when  Bertha  told  her,  with  a  sigh, 
that  she  had  been  "  hurrying  all  the  morning  to  get  through 
the  '  Children  of  the  Abbey,'  before  Charlotte  returned." 

"  Ann,  I  wish  you  would  talk  to  her,"  said  she.  "  Her 
folks  are  very  poor.  I  have  it  on  the  best  authority.  Elinda 
told  me  that  it  was  confidently  reported  by  girls  who  came 
from  the  same  town,  that  her  folks  had  been  known  to  jump 
for  joy  at  the  sight  of  a  crust  of  bread.  She  spends  every 
cent  of  her  wages  for  dress  and  confectionary.  She  has 
gone  out  now  ;  and  she  will  come  back  with  lemons,  sugar, 
rich  cake,  and  so  on.  She  had  better  do  as  I  do — spend  her 
money  for  books,  and  her  leisure  time  in  reading  them.  I 


LEISURE    HOURS    OF    THE    MILL    GIRLS.  123 

buy  three  volumes  of  novels  every  month  ;  and  when  that 
is  not  enough,  I  take  some  from  the  circulating  library.  I 
think  it  our  duty  to  improve  our  minds  as  much  as  possible, 
now  the  mill  girls  are  beginning  to  be  thought  so  much  of." 

Ann  was  a  bit  of  a  wag.  Idle  as  a  breeze,  like  a  breeze 
she  sported  with  every  trifling  thing  that  came  in  her  way. 

"  rshaw  !"  said  she.  "  And  so  we  must  begin  to  read 
silly  novels,  be  very  sentimental,  talk  about  tears  and  flow 
ers,  dews  and  bowers.  There  is  some  poetry  for  you,  Ber 
tha.  Don't  you  think  I'd  better  '  astonish  the  natives,'  by 
writing  a  poetical  raphsody,  nicknamed  '  Twilight  Reverie/ 
or  some  other  silly,  inappropriate  thing,  and  sending  it  to 
the  'Offering?'  Oh,  how  fine  this  would  be!  Then  I 
could  purchase  a  few  novels,  borrow  a  few  more,  take  a  few 
more  from  a  circulating  library ;  and  then  shed  tears  and 
grow  soft  over  them — all  because  we  are  taking  a  higher 
stand  in  the  world,  you  know,  Bertha." 

Bertha  again  blushed.  Ann  remained  some  moments 
silent. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  Pelham?"  asked  Bertha, by  way  of 
breaking  the  silence. 

"No;  I  read  no  novels,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  I 
have  been  thinking,  Bertha,  that  there  may  be  danger  of  our 
running  away  from  the  reputation  we  enjoy,  as  a  class.  For 
my  part,  I  sha'n't  ape  the  follies  of  other  classes  of  females. 
As  Isabel  Greenwood  says — and  you  know  she  is  always 
right  about  such  things — I  think  we  shall  loose  our  indepen 
dence,  originality,  and  individuality  of  character,  if  we  all 
take  one  standard  of  excellence,  and  this  the  customs  and 
opinions  of  others.  This  is  a  jaw-cracking  sentence  for  me. 
If  any  body  had  uttered  it  but  Isabel,  I  should,  perhaps,  have 
laughed  at  it.  As  it  was,  I  treasured  it  up  for  use,  as  I  do 
the  wise  sayings  of  Franklin,  Dudley,  Leavitt,  and  Robert 
Thomas.  I,  for  one,  shall  not  attempt  to  become  so  accom 
plished.  I  shall  do  as  near  right  as  I  can  conveniently,  not 
because  I  have  a  heavy  burden  of  gentility  to  support,  but 
because  it  is  quite  as  easy  to  do  right, 

'  And  then  I  sleep  so  sweet  at  night.' 

Good  morning,  Bertha." 

At  the  door  she  met  Charlotte,  on  her  return,  with  lem 
ons,  nuts,  and  cake. 

"  I  am  in  search  of  a  companion  for  a  long  ramble,"  said 
Ann.  "  Can  you  recommend  a  subject  ?" 


124  MIND   AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

"  I  should  think  Bertha  would  like  to  shake  herself,"  said 
Charlotte.  "  She  has  been  buried  in  a  novel  ever  since  she 
was  out  of  bed  this  morning.  It  was  her  turn  to  do  the 
chamber  work  this  morning  ;  and  this  is  the  way  she  always 
does,  if  she  can  get  a  novel.  She  would  not  mind  sitting  all 
day,  with  dirt  to  her  head.  It  is  a  shame  for  her  to  do  so. 
She  had  better  be  wide  awake,  enjoying  life,  as  I  am." 

"  Nonsense  !"  exclaimed  Ann,  in  her  usual  brusque  man 
ner.  "  There  is  not  a  cent's  choice  between  you  this  morn 
ing  ;  both  are  doing  wrong,  and  each  is  condemning  the 
other  without  mercy.  So  far  you  are  both  just  like  me,  you 
see.  Good  morning." 

She  walked  on  to  the  next  chamber.  She  had  enough  of 
the  philosopher  about  her  to  reason  from  appearances,  and 
from  the  occupation  of  its  inmates,  that  she  could  succeed 
no  better  there.  Every  thing  was  in  the  most  perfect  or 
der.  The  bed  was  shaped,  and  the  sheet  hemmed  down  just 
so.  Their  lines  that  hung  by  the  walls  were  filled  "jist." 
First  came  starched  aprons,  then  starched  capes,  then  pock 
et  handkerchiefs,  folded  with  the  marked  corner  out.  Then 
hose.  This  room  likewise,  had  its  paintings,  and  like  those 
of  the  other,  they  were  in  perfect  keeping  with  the  general 
arrangements  of  the  room  and  the  dress  of  its  occupants. 
There  was  an  apology  for  a  lady.  Her  attitude  and  form 
were  of  precisely  that  uncouth  kind  which  is  produced  by 
youthful  artificers,  who  form  head,  body  and  feet  from  one 
piece  of  shingle ;  and  wedge  in  two  sticks  at  right  angles 
with  the  body,  for  arms.  Her  sleeves  increased  in  dimen 
sions  from  the  shoulders,  and  the  skirt  from  the  belt,  but  with 
out  the  semblance  of  a  ibid.  This,  with  some  others  of  the 
same  school,  and  two  "  profiles,"  were  carefully  preserved  in 
frames,  and  the  frames  in  screens  of  green  barage.  Miss  Clark 
was  busily  engaged  in  making  netting,  and  Miss  Emily  in 
making  a  dress.  Ann  made  known  her  wants  to  them,  more 
from  curiosity  to  hear  their  reply,  than  from  a  hope  of  suc- 
•cess.  In  measured  periods  they  thanked  her — would  have 
been  happy  to  accompany  her.  "  But,  really,  I  must  be  ex 
cused,"  said  Miss  Clark.  "  I  have  given  myself  a  stint,  and 
I  always  feel  bad  if  I  fall  an  inch  short  of  my  plans." 

"  Yes;  don't  you  think,  Ann,"  said  Emily,  "  she  has 
stinted  herself  to  make  five  yards  of  netting  to-day.  And 
mother  says  there  is  ten  times  as  much  in  the  house  as  we 


LEISURE    HOURS    OF    THE    MILL   GIRLS.  125 

shall  ever  need.  Father  says  there  is  twenty  times  as  much  ; 
for  he  knows  we  shall  both  be  old  maids,  ha  !  ha!" 

"  Yes,  and  I  always  tell  him  that  if  I  am  an  old  maid  I 
shall  need  the  more.  Oar  folks  make  twenty  or  thirty  yards 
of  table  linen  every  year.  I  mean  to  make  fringe  for  every 
yard  ;  and  have  enough  laid  by  for  the  next  ten  years,  be 
fore  I  leave  the  mill." 

"  Well,  Emily,"  said  Ann,  "  you  have  no  fringe  to  make, 
can't  you  accompany  me  ?" 

"  I  should  be  glad  to,  Ann  ;  but  I  am  over  head  and  ears 
in  work.  I  have  got  my  wrork  all  done  up,  every  thing  that 
I  could  find  to  do.  Now  I  am  making  a  dress  for  Bertha." 

"  \\ 'hy,  Emily,  you  are  making  a  slave  of  yourself,  body 
and  mind,"  said  Ann.  "  Can't  you  earn  enough  in  the  mill 
to  afford  yourself  a  little  time  for  rest  and  amusenrient  ?" 

"La!  I  don't  make  but  twelve  dollars  a  month,  besides 
my  hoard.  I  have  made  a  great  many  dresses  evenings,  and 
have  stinted  myself  to  finish  this  to-day.  So  I  believe  I 
can't  go,  any  way.  I  should  he  terrible  glad  to." 

11  Oh,  you  are  very  excusable,"  answered  Ann.  "  But 
let  me  ask  if  you  take  any  time  to  read." 

"  No  ;  not  much.  "We  can't  afibrd  to.  Father  owns  the 
best  farm  in  Burt  ;  but  we  have  always  had  to  work  hard, 
and  always  expect  to.  We  generally  read  a  chapter  every 
day.  We  take  turns  about  it.  One  of  us  reads  while  the 
other  works." 

"  Yes  ;  but  lately  we  have  only  taken  time  to  read  a 
short  psalm,"  said  Emily,  again  laughing. 

"  Well,  the  Bible  says,  '  Let  him  that  is  without  sin  cast 
the  first  stone,'  or  I  might  be  tempted  to  remind  you  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  laboring  too  much '  for  the  meat  that 
perisheth.'  Good  morning,  ladies." 

Ann  heard  a  loud,  merry  laugh  from  the  next  room,  as 
she  reached  the  door.  It  was  Ellinora  Frothingham's  ;  no 
one  could  mistake,  who  had  heard  it  once.  It  seemed  the 
out-pouring  of  glee  that  could  no  longer  be  suppressed. 
Ellinor  sat  on  the  floor,  just  as  she  had  thrown  herself  on 
her  return  from  a  walk.  Her  pretty  little  bonnet  was  lying 
on  the  floor  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  a  travelling  bag, 
whose  contents  she  had  just  poured  into  her  lap.  There 
were  apples,  pears,  melons,  a  mock-orange,  a  pumpkin, 
squash,  and  a  crooked  cucumber.  Ellinora  sprang  to  her  feet 
when  Ann  entered,  and  threw  the  contents  of  her  lap  on  the 
11 


120  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

floor  with  such  violence,  as  to  set  them  to  rolling  all  about. 
Then  she  laughed  and  clapped  her  hands  to  see  the  squash 
chase  the  mock-orange  under  the  bed,  a  great  russet  running 
so  furiously  after  a  little  fellow  of  the  Baldwin  family,  and 
finally  pinning  him  in  a  corner.  A  pear  started  in  the  chase  ; 
but  after  taking  a  few  turns,  he  sat  himself  down  to  shake 
his  fat  sides  and  enjoy  the  scene.  Ellinora  stepped  back  a 
i'ew  paces  to  elude  the  pursuit  of  the  pumpkin,  and  then, 
\vith  well-feigned  terror,  jumped  into  a  chair.  But  the 
drollest  personage  of  the  group  was  the  ugly  cucumber. 
There  he  sat,  Forminius-like,  watching  the  mad  freaks  of 
his  companions. 

"  Ha  !  see  that  cucumber  ?"  exclaimed  Ellinora,  laughing 
heartily.     "  If  he  had  hands,  how  he  would  raise  them  so  ! 
If  he  had  eyes  and  mouth,  how  he  would  open  them  so!" 
suiting  action   to  her  words.     "Look,  Ann  !  look,  Fanny  ! 
See  if  it  does  not  look  like  the  Clark  girls,  when  one  leaves 
any  thing  in  the  shape  of  dirt  on  their  table  or  stand  !" 
Peace  was  at  length  restored  among  the  inanimates. 
"  I  came  to  invite  you  to  walk  ;  but  I  find  I  am  too  late,'' 
said  Ann. 

"Yes.  Oh,  how  I  wish  you  had  been  with  us!  You 
would  have  been  so  happy  ! ' '  said  Ellinora.  ' '  We  started  out 
very  early — before  sunrise — intending  to  take  a  brisk  walk 
of  a  mile  or  two,  and  return  in  season  for  breakfast.  We 
went  over  to  Dracut,  and  met  such  adventures  there  and 
by  the  way,  as  will  supply  me  with  food  for  laughter  years 
after  I  get  married,  and  trouble  comes.  We  came  along 
where  some  oxen  were  standing,  yoked,  eating  their  break 
fast  while  their  owner  was  eating  his.  They  were  attached 
to  a  cart  filled  with  pumpkins.  I  took  some  of  the  smallest, 
"reenest  ones,  and  stuck  them  fast  on  the  tips  of  the  oxen's 
horns.  1  was  so  interested  in  observing  how  the  ceremony 
affected  the  Messrs.  Oxen,  that  I  did  not  laugh  a  bit  until  I 
had  crowned  all  four  of  them.  I  looked  up  to  Fanny,  as  I 
finished  the  work,  and  there  she  sat  on  a  great  rock,  where 
she  had  thrown  herself  when  she  could  no  longer  stand. 
Poor  girl !  tears  were  streaming  down  her  cheeks.  With 
one  hand  she  was  holding  her  lame  side,  and  with  the  other 
.filling  her  mouth  with  her  pocket  handkerchief,  that  the 
laugh  need  not  run  out,  I  suppose.  Well,  as  soon  as  I 
looked  at  her,  and  at  the  oxen,  I  burst  into  a  laugh  that 
might  have  been  heard  miles,  I  fancy.  Oh  !  I  shall  never 


LEISURE   HOURS   OP    THE   MILL   GIRLS.  127 

forget  how  reprovingly  those  oxen  looked  at  me.  The  poor 
creatures  could  not  eat  with  such  an  unusual  weight  on  their 
horns,  so  they  pitched  their  heads  higher  than  usual,  and 
now  and  then  gave  them  a  graceful  cant,  then  stood  entire 
ly  motionless,  as  if  attempting  to  conjecture  what  it  all 
meant. 

"  Well,  that  loud  and  long  laugh  of  mine,  brought  a 
whole  volley  of  folks  to  the  door — farmer,  and  farmer's  wife, 
farmer's  sons,  and  farmer's  daughters.  *  Whoa  hish  !'  ex 
claimed  the  farmer,  before  he  reached  the  door  ;  and  '  Whoa 
hish  !'  echoed  all  the  farmer's  sons.  They  all  stopped  as 
soon  as  they  saw  me.  I  would  remind  you  that  I  still  stood 
before  the  oxen,  laughing  at  them.  I  never  saw  such  com 
ical  expressions  as  those  people  wore.  Did  you,  Fanny? 
Even  those  pictures  of  mine  are  not  so  funny.  I  thought  we 
should  raise  the  city  police  ;  for  they  had  tremendous  voices, 
and  I  never  saw  any  body  laugh  so. 

"  As  soon  as  I  could  speak,  and  they  could  listen  to  me. 
I  walked  up  to  the  farmer.  *  I  beg  your  pardon  sir,'  said  I, 
'  but  I  did  want  to  laugh  so  !  Came  all  the  way  from  Low 
ell  for  something  new  to  laugh  at.'  He  was  a  good,  sensi 
ble  man,  and  this  proves  it.  He  said  it  was  a  good  thing  to 
have  a  hearty  laugh  occasionally — good  for  the  health  and 
spirits.  Work  would  go  off  easier  all  day  for  it,  especially 
with  the  boys.  As  he  said  '  boys,'  I  could  not  avoid  smiling 
as  I  looked  at  a  fine  young  sprig  of  a  farmer,  his  oldest  son, 
as  he  afterwards  told  us,  full  twenty-one." 

"  And  now,  Miss  Ellinora,"  said  Fanny,  "  I  shall  avenge 
myself  on  you,  for  certain  saucy  freaks,  perpetrated  against 
my  most  august  commands,  by  telling  Ann,  that  as  you 
looked  at  this  '  young  sprig  of  a  farmer,'  he  looked  at  you. 
and  you  both  blushed.  What  made  you,  Nora?  I  never 
saw  you  blush  before." 

"  What  made  you,  Nora?"  echoed  Ellinora,  laughing  and 
blushing  slightly.  "  Well,  the  farmer's  wife  invited  us  to 
rest  and  breakfast  with  them.  We  began  to  make  excuses  ; 
but  the  farmer  added  his  good  natured  commands,  so  we 
went  in ;  and  after  a  few  arrangements,  such  as  placing 
more  plates,  &c.,  a  huge  pumpkin  pie,  and  some  hot  pota 
toes,  pealed  in  the  cooking,  we  sat  down  to  a  full  round  ta 
ble.  There  were  the  mealy  potatatoes,  cold  boiled  dish, 
warm  biscuit  and  dough-nuts,  pie,  coffee,  pickles,  sauce, 
cheese,  and  just  such  butter  and  brown  bread  as  mother 


128  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

makes — bread  hot,  just  taken  from  the  oven.  They  all  ap 
peared  so  pleasant  and  kind,  that  I  felt  as  if  in  my  own  home, 
with  my  own  family  around  me.  Wild  as  I  was,  as  soon  as 
I  began  to  tell  them  how  it  seemed  to  me,  I  burst  into  tears 
in  spite  of  myself,  and  was  obliged  to  leave  the  table.  But 
they  all  pitied  me  so  much,  that  1  brushed  off  my  tears,  went 
back  to  my  breakfast,  and  have  laughed  ever  since." 

"  You  have  forgotten  two  very  important  items,"  said 
Fanny,  looking  archly  into  Ellinora's  face.  "  This  '  fine 
young  sprig  of  a  farmer  '  happened  to  recollect  that  he  had 
business  in  town  to-day  ;  so  he  took  their  carriage  and 
brought  us  home,  after  Nora  and  a  roguish  sister  of  his  had 
filled  her  bag  as  you  see.  And  more  and  better  still,  they 
invited  us  to  spend  a  day  with  them  soon  ;  and  promised  to 
send  this  '  fine  young  sprig,'  &c.,  for  us  on  the  occasion." 

Ellinora  was  too  busily  engaged  in  collecting  her  fruit  to 
reply.  She  ran  from  the  room  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  re 
turned  with  several  young  girls,  to  whom  she  gave  generous 
supplies  of  apples,  pears,  and  melons.  She  was  about  seat 
ing  herself  with  a  full  plate,  when  a  new  idea  seemed  to 
flash  upon  her.  She  laughed,  and  started  for  the  door. 

"  Ellinora,  where  now  ?"  asked  Fanny. 

"  To  the  Clark  girls'  room,  to  leave  an  apple  peeling  and 
core  on  their  table,  a  pear  pealing  on  their  stand,  and  melon, 
apple,  and  pear  seeds  all  about  the  floor,  "answered  Ellinora, 
gaily  snapping  her  fingers,  and  nodding  her  head. 

"What  for?     Here,  Nora;  come   back.     For  what?" 

"  Why,  to  see  them  suffer,"  said  the  incorrigible  girl. 
"  You  know  I  told  you  this  morning,  that  sport  is  to  be  the 
order  of  the  day.  So  no  scoldings,  my  dear." 

She  left  the  room,  and  Fanny  turned  to  one  of  the  ladies 
who  had  just  entered. 

"  Where  is  Alice,"  said  she.  "  Did  not  Ellinora  extend 
an  invitation  to  her?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  she  is  half  dead  with  the  blues,  to-day.  The 
Brown  girls  came  back  last  night.  They  called  on  Alice  this 
morning,  and  left  letters  and  presents  from  home  for  her. 
She  had  a  letter  from  her  little  brother,  ten  years  old.  He 
must  be  a  fine  fellow,  judging  from  that  letter,  it  was  so  sen 
sible,  and  so  witty  too  !  One  moment  I  laughed  at  some  of 
his  lively  expressions,  and  the  next  cried  at  his  expressions  of 
love  for  Alice,  and  regret  for  her  loss.  He  told  her  how  he 
cried  himself  to  sleep  the  night  after  she  left  home  ;  and  his 


LEISURE    HOURS    OF    THE    MILL    GIRLS.  129 

flowers  seemed  to  have  faded,  and  the  stars  to  have  lost  their 
brightness,  when  he  no  longer  had  her  by  his  side  to  talk  to 
him  about  them.  1  find  by  his  letter  that  Alice  is  working  to 
keep  him  at  school.  That  part  of  it  which  contained  his 
thanks  for  her  goodness  was  blistered  with  the  little  fellow's 
tears.  Alice  cried  like  a  child  when  she  read  it,  and  I  did 
not  wonder  at  it.  But  she  ought  to  be  happy  now.  Her 
mother  sent  her  a  fine  pair  of  worsted  hose  of  her  own  spin 
ning  and  knitting,  and  a  nice  cake  of  her  own  making.  She 
wrote,  that,  trifling  as  these  presents  were,  she  knew  they 
would  be  acceptable  to  her  daughter,  because  made  by  her. 
When  Alice  read  this,  she  cried  again.  Her  sister  sent  her 
a  pretty  little  fancy  basket,  and  her  brother  a  bunch  of  flow 
ers  from  her  mother's  garden.  They  were  enclosed  in  a 
tight  tin  box,  and  were  as  fresh  as  when  first  gathered. 
Alice  sent  out  for  a  new  vase.  She  has  filled  it  with  her 
flowers,  and  will  keep  them  watered  with  her  tears,  judging 
from  present  appearances.  Alice  is  a  good-hearted  girl,  and 
I  love  her,  but  she  is  always  talking  or  thinking  of  some 
thing  to  make  her  unhappy.  A  letter  from  a  friend,  contain 
ing  nothing  but  good  news,  and  assurances  of  friendship,  that 
ought  to  make  her  happy,  generally  throws  her  into  a  crying 
fit,  which  ends  in  a  moping  fit  of  melancholy.  This  de 
stroys  her  own  happiness,  and  that  of  all  around  her." 

"  You  ought  to  talk  to  her,  she  is  spoiling  herself,"  said 
Mary  Mason,  whose  mouth  was  literally  crammed  with  the 
last  apple  of  a  second  plateful. 

"  I  have  often  urged  her  to  be  more  cheerful.  But  she 
answers  me  with  a  helpless,  hopeless,  '  I  can't  Jane!  you 
know  I  can't.  I  shall  never  be  happy  while  I  live  ;  and  I 
often  think  that  the  sooner  I  go  where  "  the  weary  are  at 
rest,"  the  better.'  J  don't  know  how  many  times  she  has  giv 
en  me  an  answer  like  this.  Then  she  will  sob  as  if  her 
heart  were  bursting.  She  sometimes  wears  me  quite  out ; 
and  I  feel  as  I  did  when  Ellinora  called  me,  as  if  released 
from  a  prison." 

"  Would  it  improve  her  spirits  to  walk  with  me  1"  asked 
Ann. 

"  Perhaps  it  would,  if  you  can  persuade  her  to  go.  Do 
try,  dear  Ann,"  answered  Jane.  "  I  called  at  Isabel  Green 
wood's  room  as  I  came  along,  and  asked  her  to  go  in  and  see 
if  she  could  rouse  her  up." 

Ann  heard  Isabel's  voice  in  gentle  but  earnest  expostula- 


130  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

tion,  as  she  reached  Alice's  room.  Isabel  paused  when  Ann 
entered,  kissed  her  cheek,  and  resigned  her  rocking-chair  to 
her.  Alice  was  sobbing  too  violently  to  speak.  She  took 
her  face  from  her  handkerchief,  bowed  to  Ann,  and  again 
buried  it.  Ann  invited  them  to  walk  with  her.  Isabel 
cheerfully  acceded  to  her  proposal,  and  urged  Alice  to  ac 
company  them. 

"  Don't  urge  me,  Isabel,"  said  Alice  ;  "  I  am  only  fit  for 
the  solitude  of  my  chamber.  I  could  not  add  at  all  to  your 
pleasure.  My  thoughts  would  be  at  my  home,  and  I  could 
not  enjoy  a  walk  in  the  least  degree.  But  Isabel,  I  do  not 
want  you  to  leave  me  so.  I  know  that  you  think  me  very 
foolish  to  indulge  in  these  useless  regrets,  as  you  call  them. 
You  will  understand  me  better  if  you  just  consider  the  situ 
ation  of  my  mother's  family.  My  mother  a  widow,  my  old 
est  brother  at  the  West,  my  oldest  sister  settled  in  New 
York,  my  youngest  brother  and  sister  only  with  mother, 
and  I  a  Lowell  factory  girl !  And  such  I  must  be — for  if  I 
leave  the  mill,  my  brother  cannot  attend  school  all  of  the 
time  ;  and  his  heart  would  almost  break  to  take  him  from 
school.  And  how  can  I  be  happy  in  such  a  situation ;  I  do 
not  ask  for  riches  ;  but  I  would  be  able  to  gather  my  friends 
all  around  me.  Then  I  could  be  happy.  Perhaps  I  am  as 
happy  now  as  you  would  be  in  my  situation,  Isabel." 

Isabel's  eyes  filled,  but  she  answered  in  her  own  sweet, 
calm  manner  : 

11  We  will  compare  lots,  my  dear  Alice.  I  have  neither 
father,  mother,  sister,  nor  home  in  the  world.  Three  years 
ago  I  had  all  of  these,  and  every  other  blessing  that  one 
could  ask.  The  death  of  my  friends,  the  distressing  circum 
stances  attending  them,  the  subsequent  loss  of  our  large 
property,  and  the  critical  state  of  my  brother's  health  at 
present,  are  not  slight  afflictions,  nor  are  they  lightly  felt." 

Isabel's  emotions,  as   she  paused  to   subdue  them  by  a 


powerful  mental  effort,  proved  her  assertion.  Alice  began 
to  dry  her  tears,  and  to  look  as  if  ashamed  of  her  weakness. 
"  I,  too,  am  a  Lowell  factory  gir!4"  pursued  Isabel.  "  I, 
too,  am  laboriYig  for  the  completion  of  a  brothers  education. 
If  that  brother  were  well,  how  gladly  would  I  toil !  But 
that  disease  is  upon  his  vitals  which  laid  father,  mother,  and 
sister  in  their  graves,  in  one  short  year.  lean  see  it  in  the 
unnatural  and  "increasing  brightness  of  his  eye,  and  hear  it 
in  his  hollow  cough.  He  has  entered  upon  his  third  colle- 


LEISURE    HOURS    OF    THE    MILL    GIRLS.  131 

giate  year ;  and  is  too  anxious  to  graduate  next  commence 
ment,  to  heed  my  entreaties,  or  the  warning  of  his  physician." 

She  again  paused.  Her  whole  frome  shook  with  emo 
tion ;  but  not  a  tear  mingled  with  Ann's,  as  they  fell  upon 
her  hand. 

"  You  see,  Alice,"  she  at  length  added,  "  what  reasons  I 
have  for  regret  when  I  think  of  the  past,  and  what  for  fear 
when  I  turn  to  the  future.  Still  I  am  happy,  almost  contin 
ually.  My  lost  friends  are  so  many  magnets,  drawing 
heavenward  those  affections  that  would  otherwise  rivet  them 
selves  too  strongly  to  earthly  loves.  And  those  dear  ones 
who  are  yet  spared  to  me,  scatter  so  many  flowers  in  my 
pathway,  that  I  seldom  feel  the  thorns.  I  am  cheered  in 
my  darkest  hours  by  their  kindness  and  affection,  animated 
at  all  times  by  a  wish  to  do  all  in  my  power  to  make  them 
happy.  If  my  brother  is  spared  to  me,  I  ask  for  nothing- 
more.  And  if  he  is  first  called,  I  trust  I  shell  feel  that  it  is 
the  will  of  One  who  is  too  wiso  to  err,  and  too  good  to  b;i- 
unkind." 

"  You  are  the  most  like  my  mother,  Isabel,  of  any  one  I 
ever  saw,"  said  Ann.  **  She  is  never  free  from  pain,  yet 
she  never  complains.  And  if  Pa,  or  any  of  us,  just  have  a 
cold  or  head  ache,  she  does  not  rest  till  '  she  makes  us  well.' 
You  have  more  trouble  than  any  other  girl  in  the  house  ; 
but  instead  of  claiming  the  sympathies  of  every  one  on  thrt 
account,  you  are  always  cheering  others  in  their  little,  hall- 
imaginary  trials.  Alice,  I  think,  you  and  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed  to  shed  a  tear,  until  we  have  some  greater  cause; 
than  mere  home-sickness,  or  low  spirits." 

"Why,  Ann,  I  can  no  more  avoid  low  spirits,  than  I  can 
make  a  world  !"  exclaimed  Alice,  in  a  really  aggrieved 
tone.  "  And  I  don't  want  you  all  to  think  that  I  have  no 
trouble.  I  want  sympathy,  and  I  can't  live  without  it.  Oh 
that  I  was  at  home  this  moment !" 

"  Why,  Alice,  there  is  hardly  a  girl  in  this  house  who  has 
not  as  much  trouble,  in  some  shape,  as  you  have.  Yon 
never  think  of  pitying  them  ;  and  pray  what  gives  you  such 
strong  claims  on  their  sympathies?  Do  you -walk  with  us, 
or  do  you  not?" 

Alice  shook  her  head  in  reply.  Isabel  whispered  a  few 
words  in  her  ear — they  might  be  of  reproof,  they  might  be 
of  consolation — then  retired  with  Ann  to  equip  for  their  walk. 

"  What  a  beautifu4  morning  this   is!"  exclaimed   Ann. 


132  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

as  they  emerged  from  the  house.  "  Malgre  some  inconve 
niences,  factory  girls  are  as  happy  as  any  class  of  females. 
I  sometimes  think  it  hard  to  rise  so  early,  and  work  so  many 
hours  shut  up  in  the  house.  But  when  I  get  out  at  night, 
on  the  Sabbath,  or  at  any  other  time,  I  am  just  as  happy  as 
a  bird,  and  long  to  fly  and  sing  with  them.  And  Alice  will 
keep  herself  shut  up  all  day.  Is  it  not  strange  that  all  will 
not  be  as  happy  as  they  can  be  ?  It  is  so  pleasant." 

Isabel  returned  Ann's  smile.  "  Yes,  Ann,  it  is  strange 
that  every  one  does  not  prefer  happiness.  Indeed,  it  is 
quite  probable  that  every  one  does  prefer  it.  But  some 
mistake  the  modes  of  acquiring  it  through  want  of  judg 
ment.  Others  are  too  indolent  to  employ  the  means  neces 
sary  to  its  attainment,  and  appear  to  expect  it  to  flow  in  to 
them,  without  taking  any  pains  to  prepare  a  channel.  Oth 
ers,  like  our  friend  Alice,  have  constitutional  infirmities, 
which  entail  upon  them  a  deal  of  suffering,  that  to  us,  of 
different  mental  organization,  appears  wholly  unnecessary." 

"  Why,  don't  you  think  Alice  might  be  as  happy  as  we 
are,  if  she  chose  ?  Could  she  not  be  as  grateful  for  letters 
and  love-tokens  from  home  ?  Could  she  not  leave  her  room, 
nnd  come  out  into  this  pure  air,  listen  to  the  birds,  and  catch 
their  spirit?  Could  she  not  do  all  this,  Isabel,  as  well  us 
we?" 

"  Well,  I  do  not  know,  Ann.  Perhaps  not.  You  know 
that  the  minds  of  different  persons  are  like  instruments  of 
different  tones.  The  same  touch  thrills  gaily  on  one,  mourn 
fully  on  another." 

"  Yes;  and  I  know,  Isabel,  that  different  minds  may  be 
compared  to  the  same  instrument  in  and  out  of  tune.  Now 
I  have  heard  Alice  say  that  she  loved  to  indulge  this  melan 
choly  ;  that  she  loved  to  read  Byron,  Mrs.  Hemans,  and 
Miss  Landon,  until  her  heart  was  as  gloomy  as  the  grave. 
Isn't  this  strange — even  silly?" 

"  It  is  most  unfortunate,  Ann." 

"  Isabel,  you  are  the  strangest  girl !  I  have  heard  a  great 
many  say,  that  one  cannot  make  you  say  anything  against 
anybody  ;  and  I  believe  they  are  correct.  And  when  you 
reprove  one,  you  do  it  in  such  a  mild,  pretty  way,  that  one 
only  loves  you  the  better  for  it.  Now,  I  smash  on,  pell- 
mell,  as  if  unconscious  of  a  fault  in  myself.  Hence,  I  oftener 
offend  than  amend.  Let  me  think. — This  morning  I  have 
administered  reproof  in  my  own  blunt  way  to  Bertha  for 


LEISURE    HOURS    OF    THE    MILL    GIRLS.  133 

reading  novels,  to  Charlotte  for  eating  confectionary,  to  the 
Clark  girls  for  their  '  all  work  and  no  play,'  and  to  Alice 
for  moping.  I  have  been  wondering  all  along  how  they 
can  spend  their  time  so  foolishly.  I  see  that  my  own  em 
ployment  would  scarcely  bear  the  test  of  close  criticism,  for 
I  have  been  watching  motes  in  others'  eyes,  while  a  beam 
was  in  my  own.  Now,  Isabel,  I  must  ask  a  favor.  I  do 
not  want  to  be  very  fine  and  nice  ;  but  I  would  be  gentle  and 
kind  hearted — would  do  some  good  in  the  world.  I  often 
make  attempts  to  this  end  ;  but  always  fail,  somehow.  I 
know  my  manner  needs  correcting ;  and  I  want  you  to  re 
prove  me  as  you  would  a  sister,  and  assist  me  with  your 
advice.  Will  you  not,  dear  Isabel  V 

She  pressed  Isabel's  arm  closer  to  her  side,  and  a  tear 
was  in  her  eye  as  she  looked  up  for  an  answer  to  her 
appeal. 

"  You  know  not  what  you  ask,  my  beloved  girl,"  an 
swered  Isabel,  in  a  low  and  tremulous  tone.  "  You  know 
not  the  weakness  of  the  staff  on  which  you  would  lean,  or 
the  frailties  of  the  heart  to  which  you  would  look  up,  for  aid. 
Of  myself,  dear  Ann,  I  can  do  nothing.  I  can  only  look  to 
God  for  protection  from  temptation,  and  for  guidance  in  the 
right  way.  \\  hen  He  keeps  me,  I  am  safe  ;  when  He  with 
draws  His  spirit,  I  am  weak  indeed.  And  can  I  lead  you, 
Ann?  No  !  you  must  go  to  a  higher  than  earthly  friend. 
Pray  to  him  in  every  hour  of  need,  and  He  will  be  '  more  to 
you  than  you  can  ask,  or  even  think.' " 

*'  How  often  I  have  wished  that  I  could  go  to  Him  as 
mother  does — just  as  I  would  go  to  a  father!"  said  Ann. 
"  But  I  dare  not.  It  would  be  mockery  in  one  who  has 
never  experienced  religion." 

*'  Make  prayer  a  means  of  this  experience,  my  dear  girl. 
Draw  near  to  God  by  humble,  constant  prayer,  and  He  will 
draw  near  to  you  by  the  influences  of  His  spirit,  which  will 
make  you  just  what  you  wish  to  be,  a  good,  kind-hearted 
girl.  You  will  learn  to  love  God  as  a  father,  as  the  author 
of  your  happiness  and  every  good  thing.  And  you  will  be 
prepared  to  meet  those  trials  which  must  be  yours  in  life  as 
the  '  chastisements  of  a  Father's  hand,  directed  by  a  Father's 
love.'  And  when  the  hour  of  death  comes,  dear  Ann,  how 
sweet,  how  soothing  will  be  the  deep-felt  conviction  that  you 
are  going  home!  You  will  have  no  fears,  for  your  trust  will 
be  in  One  whom  you  have  long  loved  and  served  ;  and  you 


134  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

will  feel  as  if  about  to  meet  your  best,  and  most  familiar 
friend." 

Ann  answered  only  by  her  tears ;  and  for  some  minutes 
they  walked  on  in  silence.  They  were  now  some  distance 
from  town.  Before  them  lay  farms,  farm-hous?s,  groves 
and  scattering  trees,  from  whose  branches  came  the  mingled 
song  of  a  thousand  birds.  Isabel  directed  Ann's  attention 
to  the  beauty  of  the  scene.  Ann  loved  nature  ;  but  she  had 
such  a  dread  of  sentimentalism  that  she  seldom  expressed 
herself  freely.  Now  she  had  no  reserves,  and  Isabel  found 
that  she  had  not  mistaken  her  capacities,  in  supposing  her 
possessed  of  faculties,  which  had  only  to  develop  themselves 
more  fully,  which  had  only  to  become  constant  incentives  to 
action,  to  make  her  all  she  could  wish. 

"  You  did  not  promise,  Isabel,"  said  Ann,  with  a  happy 
smile,  as  they  entered  their  street,  "  you  did  not  promise  to 
be  my  sister;  but  you  will,  will  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  dear  Ann  ;  we  will  be  sisters  to  each  other.  I 
think  you  told  me  that  you  have  no  sister." 

"  I  had  none  until  now  ;  and  I  have  felt  as  if  part  of  my 
affections  could  not  find  a  resting  place,  but  were  weighing 
down  my  heart  with  a  burden  that  did  not  belong  to  it.  I 
shall  no  longer  be  like  a  branch  of  our  woodbine  when  it 
cannot  find  a  clinging  place,  swinging  about  at  the  mercy 
of  every  breeze  ;  but  like  that  when  some  kind  hand  twines 
it  about  its  frame,  firm  and  trusting.  See,  Isabel !  "  ex 
claimed  she,  interrupting  herself,  "  there  sits  poor  Alice, 
just  as  we  left  her.  1  wish  she  had  walked  with  us — she 
would  have  felt  so  much  better.  Do  you  think,  Isabel,  that 
religion  ^.ould  make  her  happy  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly.  '  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and 
are  heavy  laden.  Take  my  yoke  upon  you  ;  for  I  am  meek 
and  lowly  in  heart  ;  and  ye  shall  find  rest  for  your  souls,' — 
is  as  '  faithful  a  saying  '  and  as  '  worthy  of  all  acceptation  ' 
now,  as  when  it  was  uttered,  and  when  thousands  came 
and  '  were  healed  of  all  manner  of  diseases.'  Yes,  Alice 
may  yet  be  happy,"  she  added  musingly,  "  if  she  can  be 
induced  to  read  Byron  less,  and  her  Bible  more  ;  to  think 
less  of  her  own  gratification,  and  more  of  that  of  others. 
And  we  will  be  very  gentle  to  her,  Ann  ;  but  not  the  less 
faithful  and  constant  in  our  efforts  to  win  her  to  usefulness 
and  happiness." 

Ellinora   met  them   at  the  door,  and  began  to  describe  a 


LEISURE    HOURS    OF    THE    MILL    GIRLS.  135 

frolic  that  had  occupied  her  during  their  absence.  She 
threw  her  arms  around  Isabel's  waist,  and  entered  the 
sitting-room  with  her.  "  Now,  Isabel,  I  know  you  don't 
think  it  right  to  be  so  giddy,"  said  she.  "  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  have  resolved  to  do.  You  shake  your  head,  Isabel, 
and  I  do  not  wonder  at  all.  But  this  resolution  was  formed 
this  morning,  on  my  way  back  from  Dracut  ;  and  I  feel  in 
my  *  heart  of  hearts  '  *  a  sober  certainty  of  waking  '  ener 
gy  to  keep  it  unbroken.  It  is  that  I  will  be  another  sort  of 
a  girl,  altogether,  henceforth  ;  steady,  but  not  gloomy  ;  less 
talkative,  but  not  reserved  ;  more  studious,  but  not  a  book 
worm  ;  kind  and  gentle  to  others,  but  not  a  whit  the  less 
independent,  '  for  a'  that,'  in  my  opinions  and  conduct. — 
And,  after  this  day,  which  I  have  dedicated  to  Momus,  I 
want  you  to  be  my  Mentor.  Now  I  am  for  another  spree  of 
some  sort.  Nay,  Isabel,  do  not  remonstrate.  You  will 
make  me  weep  with  five  tender  words." 

It  needed  not  so  much — for  Isabel  smiled  sadly,  kissed  her 
cheek,  and  Ellinora's  tears  fell  fast  and  thick  as  she  ran 
from  the  room. 

Ann  went  immediately  to  Alice's  room  on  her  return. — 
She  apologized  to  her  for  reproving  her  so  roughly,  describ 
ed  her  walk,  gave  a  synopsis  of  Isabel's  advice,  and  her 
consequent  determinations.  By  these  means  she  diverted 
Alice's  thoughts  from  herself,  gave  her  nerves  a  healthy 
spring,  and  when  the  bell  summoned  them  to  dinner,  she 
had  recovered  much  of  her  happier  humor.  Ellinora  sat 
beside  her  at  table.  She  laughingly  proposed  an  exchange, 
offering  a  portion  of  her  levity  for  as  much  of  her  gravity. 
She  thought  the  equilibrium  would  be  more  perfect.  So 
Alice  thought,  and  she  heartily  wished  that  the  exchange 
might  be  made. 

And  this  exchange  seems  actually  taking  place  at  this 
time.  They  are  as  intimate  as  sisters.  Together  they  are 
resolutely  struggling  against  the  tide  of  habit.  They  meet 
many  discouraging  failures  ;  but  Isabel  is  ever  ready  to 
cheer  them  by  her  sympathy,  and  to  assist  them  by  her  ad 
vice. 

Ann's  faults  were  not  so  deeply  rooted  ;  perhaps  she 
brought  more  natural  energy  to  their  extermination.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  she  is  now  an  excellent  lady,  a  fit  com 
panion  for  the  peerless  Isabel. 

The  Clark  girls  do  not,  as  yet,  coalesce  in  their  system  of 


136  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

improvement.  They  still  prefer  making  netting-  and  dresses, 
to  the  lecture-room,  the  improvement  circle,  and  even  to  the 
reading  of  the  "  Book  of  books."  So  difficult  is  it  to  turn 
from  the  worship  of  Plutus  ! 

The  delusion  of  Bertha  and  Charlotte  is  partially  broken. 
Bertha  is  beginning  to  understand  that  much  reading  does 
not  naturally  result  in  intellectual  or  moral  improvement, 
unless  it  be  well  regulated.  Charlotte  is  learning  that 
"  to  enjoy  is  to  obey  ;  "  and  that  to  pamper  her  own  animal 
appetites,  while  her  father  and  mother  are  suffering  for 
want  of  the  necessaries  of  life,  is  not  in  obedience  to  Divine 
command. 

And,  dear  sisters,  how  is  it  with  each  one  of  usl  How 
do  we  spend  our  leisure  hours'?  Now,  "in  the  stilly  hour 
of  night,"  let  us  pause,  and  give  our  consciences  time  to 
render  faithful  answers.  D. 


THE  TOMB  OF  WASHINGTON. 

He  sleeps  there  in  the  midst  of  the  very  simplicities  of  Nature." 

THERE  let  him  sleep,  in  Nature's  arms, 

Her  well-beloved,  her  chosen  child — 
There  'mid  the  living,  quiet  charms 

Of  that  sequestered  wild. 

He  would  have  chosen  such  a  spot, 
'Twas  fit  that  they  should  lay  him  there, 
Away  from  all  the  haunts  of  care  ; 

The  world  disturbs  him  not. — 
He  sleeps  full  sweet  in  his  retreat — 

The  place  is  consecrated  ground, 
It  is  not  meet  unhallowed  feet 

Should  tread  that  sacred  mound. 

He  lies  in  pomp — not  of  display — 
No  useless  trappings  grace  his  bier, 

Nor  idle  words — they  may  not  say 
What  treasures  cluster  here. 


THE    TOMB    OF    WASHINGTON.  137 

The  pomp  of  nature,  wild  and  free, 
Adorns  our  hero's  lowly  bed, 
And  gently  bends  above  his  head 

The  weeping  laurel  tree. 
In  glory's  day  he  shunned  display, 

And  ye  may  not  bedeck  him  now, 
But  Nature  may,  in  her  own  way, 

Hang  garlands  round  his  brow. 

He  lies  in  pomp — not  sculptured  stone, 

Nor  chiseled  marble — vain  pretence — 
The  glory  of  his  deeds  alone 

Is  his  magnificence. 

His  country's  love  the  meed  he  won, 
He  bore  it  with  him  down  to  death, 
Unsullied  e'en  by  slander's  breath — 

His  country's  sire  and  son. 
Her  hopes  and  fears,  her  smiles  and  tears, 

Were  each  his  own. — He  gave  his  land 
His  earliest  cares,  his  choicest  years, 

And  led  her  conquering  band. 

He  lies  in  pomp — not  pomp  of  war — 

He  fought,  but  fought  not  for  renown  ; 
He  triumphed,  yet  the  victor's  star 

Adorned  no  regal  crown. 

His  honor  was  his  country's  weal ; 
From  off  her  neck  the  yoke  he  tore — 
It  was  enough,  he  asked  no  more ; 

His  generous  heart  could  feel 
No  low  desire  for  king's  attire  ; — 

With  brother,  friend,  and  country  blest, 
He  could  aspire  to  honors  higher 

Than  kingly  crown  or  crest. 

He  lies  in  pomp — his  burial  place 

Than  sculptured  stone  is  richer  far; 
For  in  the  heart's  deep  love  we  trace 

His  name,  a  golden  star. 

Wherever  patriotism  breathes, 
His  memory  is  devoutly  shrined 
In  every  pure  and  gifted  mind  : 

And  history,  with  wreaths 


138  MIND    AMONGST    THE     SPINDLES. 

Of  deathless  fame,  entwines  that  name, 
Which  evermore,  beneath  all  skies, 

Like  vestal  flame,  shall  live  the  same, 
For  virtue  never  dies. 

There  let  him  rest — 't  is  a  sweet  spot ; 

Simplicity  becomes  the  great — 
But  Vernon's  son  is  not  forgot, 

Though  sleeping  not  in  state. 

There,  wrapt  in  his  own  dignity, 
His  presence  makes  it  hallowed  ground, 
And  Nature  throws  her  charms  around, 

And  o'er  him  smiles  the  sky. 
There  let  him  rest — the  noblest,  best  ; 

The  labors  of  his  life  all  done — 
There  let  him  rest,  the  spot  is  blessed — 

The  grave  of  WASHINGTON. 

ADELAIDE. 


LIFE  AMONG  FARMERS. 

THERE  is  much  complaint  among  farmers'  wives  and 
daughters,  of  want  of  time  for  rest,  recreation,  and  literary 
pursuits.  "  It  is  cook,  eat,  and  scrub — cook,  eat,  and  scrub, 
from  morning  till  night,  and  from  year  to  year,"  says  many 
a  farmer's  wife.  And  so  it  is  in  many  families.  But  how 
far  this  results  from  the  very  nature  of  the  situation,  and 
how  far  from  injudicious  domestic  management,  is  a  query 
worthy  of  our  attention.  A  very  large  proportion  of  my 
readers,  who  are  now  factory  girls,  will  in  a  few  months  or 
years  be  the  busy  wrives  of  busy  farmers  ;  and  if  by  a  few 
speculations  on  the  subject  before  us,  and  an  illustration  to 
the  point,  we  can  reach  one  hint  that  may  hereafter  be  use 
ful  to  us,  our  labor  and  "  search  of  thought  "  will  not  have 
been  in  vain. 

Mr.  Moses  Eastman  was  what  is  technically  called  a 
wealthy  farmer.  Every  one  in  the  country  knows  what  this 
means.  He  had  a  farm  of  some  hundred  or  more  acres,  a 
large  two-story  dwelling  house,  a  capacious  yard,  in  which 


LIFE    AMONG    FARMERS.  139 

were  two  large  barns,  sheds,  a  sheep-cote,  granary,  and 
hen-coop.  He  kept  a  hundred  sheep,  ten  cows,  horses  and 
oxen  in  due  proportion.  Mr.  Eastman  often  declared  that 
no  music  was  half  so  sweet  to  him  as  that  of  the  inmates  of 
this  yard.  I  think  we  shall  not  quarrel  with  his  taste  in 
this  manifestation  ;  for  it  is  certainly  delightful,  on  a  warm 
day,  in  early  spring,  to  listen  to  them,  the  lambs,  hens — 
Guinea  and  American — turkeys,  geese,  and  ducks  and  pea 
cocks. 

Mr.  Eastman  was  unbending  in  his  adherence  to  the 
creed,  prejudices,  and  customs  of  his  fathers.  It  was  his 
boast  that  his  farm  had  passed  on  from  father  to  son,  to  the 
fourth  generation  ;  and  everybody  could  see  that  it  was  none 
the  worse  for  wear.  He  kept  more  oxen,  sheep,  and  cows 
than  his  father  kept.  He  had  "  pulled  down  his  barns  and 
built  larger."  He  had  surrounded  his  fields  and  pastures 
with  stone  wall,  in  lieu  of  Virginian,  stump,  brush,  and 
board  fence.  And  he  had  taught  his  sons  and  daughters,  of 
whom  he.  had  an  abundance,  to  walk  in  his  footsteps — all 
but  Mary.  He  should  always  rue  the  day  that  he  consented 
to  let  Mary  go  to  her  aunt's  ;  but  he  acted  upon  the  belief 
that  it  would  lessen  his  expenses  to  be  rid  of  her  during  her 
childhood.  He  had  all  along  intended  to  recall  her  as  soon 
as  she  was  old  enough  to  be  serviceable  to  him.  But  he 
said  he  believed  that  would  never  be,  if  she  lived  as  long  as 
Methuselah.  She  could  neither  spin  nor  weave  as  she 
ought  ;  for  she  put  so  much  material  in  her  yarn,  and  wove 
her  cloth  so  thick,  that  no  profit  resulted  from  its  manufac 
ture  and  sale.  Now  Deborah,  his  oldest  daughter,  had  just 
her  mother's  knack  of  making  a  good  deal  out  of  a  little. — 
And  Mary  had  imbibed  some  very  dangerous  ideas  of  religion, 
— she  did  not  even  believe  in  ghosts  ! — dress,  and  reading. 
For  his  part,  he  would  not,  on  any  account,  attend  any  other 
meeting  than  old  Mr.  Bates's.  His  father  and  grandfather 
always  attended  there,  and  they  prospered  well.  But  Mary 
wanted  to  go  to  the  other  meeting  occasionally,  all  because 
Mr.  Morey  happened  to  be  a  bit  of  an  orator.  True,  Mr. 
Bates  was  none  of  the  smartest;  but  there  was  an  advantage 
in  this.  He  could  sleep  as  soundly,  and  rest  as  rapidly, 
when  at  his  meeting,  as  in  his  bed  ;  and  by  this  means  he 
could  regain  the  sleep  lost  during  the  week  by  rising  early 
and  working  late.  And  Mary  had  grown  so  proud  that  she 
would  not  wear  a  woolen  home-manfactured  dress  visiting, 


140  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

as  Deborah  did.  She  must  flaunt  off  to  meeting  every  Sab 
bath,  in  white  or  silk,  while  chintz  was  good  enough  for 
Deborah.  Deborah  seldom  read  anything  but  the  Bible. 
Watts's  Hymn  Book,  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  a  few 
tracts  they  had  in  the  house.  Mary  had  hardly  laid  off  her 
finery,  on  her  return  from  her  aunt's,  before  she  inquired 
about  books  and  newspapers.  Her  aunt  had  heaps  of  books 
and  papers.  These  had  spoilt  Mary.  True,  papers  were 
sometimes  useful  ;  he  would  have  lost  five  hundred  dollars 
by  the  failure  of  the Bank,  but  for  a  newspaper  he  bor 
rowed  of  Captain  Norwood.  But  the  Captain  had  enough 
of  them — was  always  ready  to  lend  to  him — and  he  saved 
no  small  sum  in  twenty  years  by  borrowing  papers  of  him. 

How  Captain  Norwood  managed  to  add  to  his  property  he 
could  not  conceive.  So  much  company,  fine  clothing,  and 
schooling!  he  wondered  that  it  did  not  ruin  him.  And 
'twas  all  folly — 'twas  a  sin  ;  for  they  were  setting  extrava 
gant  examples,  and  every  body  thought  they  must  do  as  the 
Norwoods  did.  Mr.  Norwood  ought  to  remember  that  his 
father  wore  home-made  ;  and  what  was  good  enough  for 
his  good  old  father  was  good  enough  for  him.  But  alas  ! 
times  were  dreadfully  altered. 

As  for  Mary,  she  must  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  or  go  back 
to  her  aunt.  He  would  not  help  one  who  did  not  help  her 
self.  Mary  was  willing,  nay,  anxious  to  return.  To  spend 
one  moment,  except  on  the  Sabbath,  in  reading,  was  con 
sidered  a  crime  ;  to  gather  a  flower  or  mineral,  absurd  ;  and 
Mary  begged  that  she  might  be  permitted  to  return  to  Mrs. 
Barlow.  As  there  was  no  prospect  of  reforming  her,  Mr. 
Eastman  and  his  wife  readily  consented.  Mr.  Eastman  told 
her,  at  the  same  time,  that  she  must  be  preparing  for  a  wet 
day  ;  and  repeatedly  charged  her  to  remember  that  those 
who  folded  their  hands  in  the  summer,  must  "  beg  in  har 
vest,  and  have  nothing." 

Mary  had  often  visited  the  Norwoods  and  other  young 
friends,  during,  the  year  spent  at  home  ;  but  she  had  not 
been  permitted  to  give  a  party  in  return.  Why,  Deborah 
had  never  thought  of  doing  such  a  thing !  Mary  begged 
the  indulgence  of  her  mother,  with  the  assurance  that  it  was 
the  last  favor  she  would  ever  ask  at  her  hand.  The  mother 
in  her  at  last  yielded  ;  and  she  promised  to  use  her  influence 
with  her  husband.  After  a  deal  of  cavilling,  he  consented, 
on  the  condition  that  the  strictest  economy  should  attend  the 


LIFE    AMONG    FARMERS.  141 

expenditures  on  the  occasion,  and  that  they  should  exercise 
more  prudence  in  the  family,  until  their  loss  was  made  gain. 
So  the  party  was  given. 

"  You  find  yourself  thrown  on  barren  ground,  Miss 
Norwood,"  said  Mary,  as  she  saw  Miss  Norwood  looking 
around  the  room  ;  "  neither  papers,  books,  plants,  plates, 
nor  minerals." 

"  Where  are  those  rocks  yon  brought  in,  Molly?  "  said 
Deborah,  with  a  loud,  grating  laugh. 

Mary  attempted  to  smile,  but  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  What  rocks,  Deborah  !  "  asked  Clarina  Norwood. 

"  Them  you  see  stuffed  into  the  garden  wall,  there. — 
Mary  fixed  them  all  in  a  row  on  the  table.  I  think  as  father 
does,  that  nothing  is  worth  saving  that  can't  be  used  ;  so  I 
put  them  in  the  wall  to  keep  the  hens  out  of  the  garden. 
The  silly  girl  cried  when  she  see  them ;  should  you  have 
thought  it?  " 

"  What  were  they,  Mary?  "  asked  Clarina. 

"  Very  pretty  specimens  of  white,  rose,  and  smoky 
quartz,  black  and  white  mica,  gneiss,  hornblende,  and  a 
few  others,  that  I  collected  on  that  very  high  hill,  west  oi 
here." 

"  How  unfortunate  to  lose  them!  "  said  Miss  Norwood, 
in  a  soothing  tone.  "  Could  not  we  recover  them,  dear 
Mary?  " 

"There  is  no  room  for  them,"  said  Deborah.  "We 
want  to  spread  currants  and  blueberries  on  the  tables  to  be 
dried.  Besides,  I  think  as  father  does,  that  there  is 
enough  to  do,  without  spending  the  time  in  such  flummery. 
As  father  says,  '  time  is  our  estate,'  and  I  think  we  ought 
to  improve  every  moment  of  it,  except  Sundays,  in  work." 

"  I  must  differ  from  you,  Miss  Eastman, ""said  Miss  Nor 
wood.  "  I  cannot  think  it  the  duty  of  any  one  to  labor  en 
tirely  for  the  *  meat  that  perisheth."  Too  much,  vastly  too 
much  time  is  spent  thus  by  almost  all." 

"  The  mercy  !  you  would  have  folks  prepare  for  a  wet 
day,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"  I  would  have  every  one  make  provision  for  a  comforta 
ble  subsistence  ;  and  this  is  enough.  The  mind  should  be 
cared  for,  Deborah.  It  should  not  be  left  to  starve,  or  feed 
on  husks." 

"  I  don't  know  about  this  mind,  of  which  you  and  our 
Mary  make  such  a  fuss.  My  concern  is  for  my  body.  Of 
this  I  know  enough."  12 


142  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

"  Yes ;  you  know  that  it  is  dust,  and  that  to  dust  it  must 
return  in  a  little  time,  while  the  mind  is  to  live  on  for  ever, 
with  God  and  His  holy  angels.  Think  of  this  a  moment, 
Deborah  ;  and  say,  should  not  the  mind  be  fed  and  clothed 
upon,  when  its  destiny  is  so  glorious  1  Or  should  we  spend 
our  whole  lives  in  adding  another  acre  to  our  farms, 
another  dress  to  our  wardrobe,  and  another  dollar  to  our 
glittering  heap  ?  " 

"Oh,  la  !  all  this  sounds  nicely  ;  but  I  do  think  that 
every  man  who  has  children  should  provide  for  them." 

"  Certainly — intellectual  food  and  clothing.  It  is  for  this 
I  am  contending.  He  should  provide  a  comfortable  bodily 
subsistance,  and  educate  them  as  far  as  he  is  able  and  their 
destinies  require." 

"  And  he  should  leave  them  a  few  hundreds,  or  thousands, 
to  give  them  a  kind  of  a  start  in  the  world." 

"  He  does  this  in  giving  them  a  liberal  education,  and  he 
leaves  them  in  banks  that  will  always  discount.  But  farther 
than  education  of  intellect  and  propensity  is  concerned,  I  am 
for  the  self-made  man.  I  think  it  better  for  sons  to  carve 
their  own  way  to  eminence  with  little  pecuniary  aid  by  way 
of  a  settlement ;  and  for  daughters  to  be  *  won  and  wedded  ' 
for  their  own  intrinsic  excellence,  not  for  the  dowry  in  store 
for  them  from  a  rich  father." 

"  There  is  no  arguing  with  you,  everybody  says  ;  so  I'll 
go  and  see  how  my  cakes  bake." 

Mr.  Eastmam  came  in  to  tea,  contrary  to  his  usual  cus 
tom. 

"  Clarina,  has  your  father  sold  that  great  calf  of  his?  •' 
he  inquired,  as  he  seated  himself  snugly  beside  his  "  better 
half." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  know,  sir,"  answered  Clarina,  biting 
her  lip  to  avoid  laughing. 

"  I  heard  Mr.  Montgomery  ask  him  the  same  question, 
this  morning  ;  and  Pa  said  '  yes,'  I  believe,"  said  Miss 
Norwood,  smiling. 

"  How  much  did  he  get  for  it?  " 

Miss  Norwood  did  not  know. 

"  Like  Mary,  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Eastman.  "  Now  I'll 
warrant  you  that  Debby  can  tell  the  price  of  every  creature 
I've  sold  this  year." 

"  Yes,  father  ;  I  remember  as  plain  as  day,  how  much 
you  got  from  that  simple  Joe  Slater,  for  the  white-faced 


LIFE    AMONG    FARMERS.  143 

calf — how  much  you  got  for  the  black-faced  sheep,  Rowley 
and  Jumble,  and  for  Star  and  Bright.  Oh,  how  I  want  to 
see  Bright !  And  then  there  is  the  black  colt — you  got 
forty  dollars  for  him,  didn't  you,  father?  " 

"  Yes,  Debby  ;  you  are  a  keen  one,  "  said  Mr.  Eastman 
triumphantly.  "  Did  n't  I  tell  you  so,  Julia?  " 

"  1  do  not  burden  my  memory  with  superfluities,"  answered 
Miss  Norwood.  "  1  can  scarcely  find  room  for  necessaries." 

"  And  do  you  rank  the  best  way  of  making  pies,  cakes, 
and  puddings,  with  necessaries  or  superfluities?  " 

"  Among  necessaries  in  household  economy,  certainly," 
answered  Miss  Norwood.  "  But  Mrs.  Child's  '  Frugal 
Housewife  '  renders  them  superfluities  as  a  part  of  memory's 
storage." 

"  Oh,  the  book  costs  something,  you  know  ;  and  if  this 
can  be  saved  by  a  little  exercise  of  the  memory,  it  is  well, 
you  know." 

"  The  most  capacious  and  retentive  memory  would  fail  to 
treasure  up  and  retain  all  that  one  wishes  to  know  of  cook 
ing  and  other  matters,"  said  Clarina. 

"  Well,  then,  one  may  copy  from  her  book,"  said  Mr. 
Eastman. 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Eastman,  to  spend  one's  time  in  copying 
her  recipes,  when  the  work  can  be  purchased  for  twenty-five 
cents,  would  be  *  straining  out  a  gnat,  and  swallowing  a 
camel,'  "  remarked  the  precise  and  somewhat  pedantic  Miss 
Ellinor  Gould  Smith.  "  And  then  the  peculiar  disadvantages 
of  referring  to  manuscript !  I  had  my  surfeit  of  this  before 
the  publication  of  her  valuable  work." 

"  Ah  !  it  is  every  thing  but  valuable,"  answered  Mr. 
Eastman.  "Just  think  of  her  pounds  of  sugar,  her  two 
pounds  of  butter,  her  dozen  eggs,  and  ounces  of  nutmegs. 
Depend  upon  ifc^  they  are  not  very  valuable  in  the  holes  they 
would  make  in  our  cash-bags."  He  said  this  with  precisely 
the  air  of  one  who  imagines  he  has  uttered  a  poser. 

"  But  you  forget  her  economical  and  wholesome  prescrip 
tions  for  disease,  her  directions  for  repairing  and  preserving 
clothing  and  provisions,  that  would  be  lost  without  them," 
answered  Miss  Smith. 

"  But  one  should  always  be  prying  into  these  things,  and 
learn  them  for  themselves,"  said  Mr.  Eastman. 

"On  the  same  principle,  extended  in  its  scale,  every  man 
might  make  his  own  house,  furniture,  and  clothing,"  said 


144  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

s 

Miss  Norwood.  "  With  the  expenditure  of  much  labor  and 
research,  she  has  supplied  us  with  directions  ;  and  I  think  it 
would  be  vastly  foolish  for  every  wife  and  daughter  to  expend 
just  as  much,  when  they  can  be  supplied  with  the  fruits  of 
hers,  for  the  product  of  half  a  day's  labor." 

"  Does  your  mother  use  it  much?  "  asked  Mrs.  Eastman. 

"  Yes  ;    she  acknowledges  herself  much  indebted  to  it." 

"  I  should  n't  think  she  'd  need  it ;  she  is  so  notable.  Has 
she  made  many  cheeses  this  summer?  " 

"  About  the  usual  number,  I  believe." 

"  Well,  I  've  made  more  than  I  ever  did  a  year  afore — 
thirty  in  my  largest  hoop,  all  new  milk,  and  twenty  in  my 
next  largest,  part  skimmed  milk.  Our  cheese  press  is  terri 
bly  out  of  order,  now.  It  must  be  fixed,  Mr.  Eastman.  And 
I  have  made  more  butter,  or  else  our  folks  have  n't  ate  as 
much  as  common.  I  've  made  it  salter,  and  there's  a  great 
saving  in  this." 

"  There  's  a  good  many  ways  to  save  ia  the  world,  if  one 
will  take  pains  to  find  them  out,"  said  Mr.  Eastman. 

"  Doubtless  ;  but  I  think  the  best  method  of  saving  in  pro 
visions  is  to  eat  little,"  said  Clarina,  as  she  saw  Mr.  East 
man  putting  down  his  third  biscuit. 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  I  think  we  ought  to  eat  as  much  as  the 
appetite  calls  for,"  answered  Mr.  Eastman. 

"  Yes ;  if  the  appetite  is  not  depraved  by  indulgence." 

"  Yes;  it  is  an  awful  thing  to  pinch  in  eating,"  said  Deb 
orah. 

u  I  never  knew  one  to  sin  in  doing  it,"  said  Miss  Nor 
wood.  "But  many  individuals  and  whole  families  make 
themselves  excessively  uncomfortable,  and  often  incur  dis 
ease,  by  eating  too  much.  There  is,  besides,  a  waste  of  food, 
and  of  labor  in  preparing  it.  In  such  families,  there  is  a 
continual  round  of  eating,  cooking,  and  sleeping,  with  the 
female  portion  ;  and  no  time  for  rest,  recreation,  or  literary 
pursuits." 

"  I  have  told  our  folks  a  great  many  times,  that  I  did  not 
believe  that  you  lived  by  eating,  over  to  your  house,"  said 
Mr.  Eastman.  "  I  have  been  over  that  way  before  our  folks 
got  breakfast  half  ready  ;  and  your  men  would  be  out  to 
work,  and  you  women  folks  sewing,  reading,  or  watering 
plants,  or  weeding  your  flower  garden.  1  do  n't  see  how  you 
manage." 

"  We  do  not  find  it  necessary  to  manage  at  all,  our  break- 


LIFE    AMONG    FARMERS.  145 

fasts  are  so  simple.  We  have  only  to  make  cocoa,  and  ar 
range  the  breakfast." 

"  Do  n't  you  cook  meat  for  breakfast  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  East 
man. 

"Never;  our  breakfast  invariably  consists  of  cocoa,  or 
water,  cold  white  bread  and  butter." 

"  Why,  our  men  folks  will  have  meat  three  times  a  day — 
warm,  morning-  and  noon,  and  cold  at  night.  We  have  warm 
bread  for  breakfast  and  supper,  always.  When  they  work 
very  hard,  they  want  luncheon  at  ten,  and  again  at  three. 
I  often  tell  our  folks  that  it  is  step,  step,  from  morning  till 
night." 

"Of  course,  you  find  no  time  to  read,"  said  Miss  Nor 
wood. 

"  No  ;  but  I  should  n't  mind  this,  if  1  did  n't  get  so  dread 
ful  tired.  I  often  tell  our  folks  that  it  is  wearing  me  all  out," 
said  Mrs.  Eastman,  in  a  really  aggrieved  tone. 

"  Well,  it  is  quite  the  fashion  to  starve,  now-a-days,  I 
know  ;  but  it  is  an  awful  sin,"  said  Mr.  Eastman. 

Miss  Norwood  saw  that  she  might  as  well  spend  her  time 
in  rolling  a  stone  up  hill,  as  in  attempting  to  convince  him  of 
fallacy  in  reasoning. 

"  Clarina,"  said  she,  "  did  you  ask  Frederic  to  call  for  the 
other  volume  of  the  '  Alexandrian? '  ' 

"  Why,  I  should  think  that  you  had  books  enough  at  home, 
without  borrowing,"  said  Mr.  Eastman,  stopping  by  the  way 
to  rinse  down  his  fifth  dough-nut.  "  For  my  part,  I  find  no 
time  for  reading  anything  but  the  Bible."  And  the  deluded 
man  started  up  with  a  gulp  and  a  grunt.  He  had  eaten 
enough  for  three  full  meals,  had  spent  time  enough  for  eat 
ing  one  meal,  and  reading  several  pages;  yet  he  left  the 
room  with  a  smile,  so  self-satisfied  in  its  expression,  that  it 
was  quite  evident  that  he  thought  himself  the  wisest  man  in 
New  Hampshire,  except  Daniel  Webster. 

This  is  rather  a  sad  picture  of  life  among  farmers.  But 
many  of  my  readers  will  bear  me  witness  that  it  is  a  correct 
one,  as  far  as  it  goes.  Many  of  them  have  left  their  homes, 
because,  in  the  quaint  but  appropriate  language  of  Mrs.  East 
man,  it  was  "  step,  step,  from  morning  till  night."  But 
there  are  other  and  brighter  pictures,  of  more  extensive  ap 
plication,  perhaps,  than  that  already  drawn. 

Captain  Norwood  had  as  large  a  farm  as  Mr.  Eastman. 
His  family  was  as  large,  yet  the  existence  of  the  female 


146  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

portion  was  paradisiacal,  compared  with  that  of  Mrs.  East 
man  and  her  daughters.  Their  meals  were  prepared  with 
the  most  perfect  elegance  and  simplicity.  Their  table  covers 
and  their  China  were  of  the  same  dazzling  whiteness.  Their 
cutlery,  from  the  unfrequency  of  its  contact  with  acids,  with 
a  little  care,  wore  a  constant  polish.  Much  prettier  these, 
than  the  dark  oiled-cloth  cover  and  corresponding  et  cetera  of 
table  appendages,  at  Mr.  Eastman's.  Mrs.  Norwood  and 
her  daughters  carried  system  into  every  department  of  labour. 
While  one  was  preparing  breakfast,  another  put  things  in 
nice  order  all  about  the  house,  and  another  was  occupied  in 
the  dairy. 

Very  different  was  it  at  Mr.  Eastman's.  Deborah  must 
get  potatoes,  and  set  Mary  to  washing  them,  while  she  made 
bread.  Mrs.  Eastman  must  cut  brown  bread,  and  send  Deb 
orah  for  butter,  little  Sally  for  sauce,  and  Susan  for  pickles. 
One  must  cut  the  meat  and  set  it  to  cook  ;  then  it  was  ' '  Mary, 
have  you  seen  to  that  meat  ?  I  expect  it  wants  turning.  Sally, 
run  and  salt  this  side,  before  she  turns  it."  And  then,  in  a 
few  moments,  "Debby,  do  look  to  that  meat.  I  believe  that  it 
is  all  burning  up.  How  do  them  cakes  bake?  look,  Sally. 
My  goodness!  all  burnt  to  a  cinder,  nearly.  Debby,  why 
didn't  you  see  to  them  ?  " 

"  La,  mother  !  I  thought  Mary  was  about  the  lot,  some 
where.  Where  is  she,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  In  the  other  room,  reading,  I  think  likely.  Oh  !  I  for 
got  :  I  sent  her  after  some  coffee  to  burn." 

"What!  going  to  burn  coffee  now?  We  sha'nt  have 
breakfast  to-day." 

"  You  fuss,  Debby.  We  can  burn  enough  for  breakfast 
in  five  minutes.  I  meant  to  have  had  a  lot  burned  yesterday  ; 
but  we  had  so  much  to  do.  There,  Debby,  you  see  to  the 
potatoes.  I  wonder  what  we  are  going  to  have  for  dinner." 

"  Do  n't  begin  to  talk  about  dinner  yet,  for  pity's  sake," 
said  Deborah.  "  Sally,  you  ha'nt  got  the  milk  for  the  coffee. 
Susan,  go  and  sound  for  the  men  folks:  breakfast  will  be 
ready  by  the  time  they  get  here.  Mary,  put  the  pepper,  vin 
egar,  and  salt  on  the  table,  if  you  can  make  room  for  them." 

"  Yes  ;  and  Debby,  you  go  and  get  one  of  them  large 
pumpkin  pies,"  said  Mrs.  Eastman.  "  And  Sally,  put  the 
chairs  round  the  table ;  the  men  folks  are  coming  upon  the 
run." 

"Oh,  mother  !  I  am  so  glad  you  are  going  to  have  pie ! 


A  WEAVER'S  REVERIE.  147 

1  do  love  it  so  well,"  said  Susan,  seating  herself  at  the  table, 
without  waiting  for  her  parents. 

Such  a  rush!  such  a  clatter  of  knives,  forks,  plates, 

cups,  and  saucers  !  It  "  realized  the  phrase  of ,"  and 

was  absolutely  appalling  to  common  nerves. 

After  breakfast  came  the  making  of  beds  and  sweeping, 
baking  and  boiling  for  dinner,  making  and  turning  cheese, 
and  so  on,  until  noon.  Occasional  bits  of  leisure  were  seized 
in  the  afternoon,  for  sewing  and  knitting  that  must  be  done, 
and  for  visiting. 

The  situation  of  such  families  is  most  unpleasant,  but  it  is 
not  irremediable.  Order  may  be  established  and  preserved  in 
the  entire  household  economy.  They  may  restrict  themselves 
to  a  simpler  system  of  dietetics.  With  the  money  and  time 
thus  saved,  they  may  purchase  books,  subscribe  for  good 
periodicals,  and  find  ample  leisure  to  read  them.  Thus  their 
intellects  will  be  expanded  and  invigorated.  They  will  have 
opportunities  for  social  intercourse,  for  the  cultivation  of 
friendships  ;  and  thus  their  affections  will  be  exercised  and 
warmed.  Then,  happy  the  destiny  of  the  farmer,  the  farm 
er's  wife,  and  the  farmer's  daughters.  A.  F.  D. 


A  WEAVER'S  REVERIE. 

IT  was  a  sunny  day,  and  I  left  for  a  few  moments  the  cir 
cumscribed  spot  which  is  my  appointed  place  of  labor,  that 
I  might  look  from  an  adjoining  window  upon  the  bright  love 
liness  of  nature.  Yes,  it  was  a  sunny  day  ;  but  for  many 
days  before,  the  sky  had  been  veiled  in  gloomy  clouds ;  and 
joyous  indeed  was  it  to  look  up  into  that  blue  vault,  and  see 
it  unobscured  by  its  sombre  screen  ;  and  my  heart  fluttered, 
like  a  prisoned  bird,  with  its  painful  longings  for  an  uncheck 
ed  flight  amidst  the  beautiful  creation  around  me. 

Why  is  it,  said  a  friend  to  me  one  day,  that  the  factory 
girls  write  so  much  about  the  beauties  of  nature  ? 

Oh !  why  is  it,  (thought  I,  when  the  query  afterwards 
recurred  to  me,)  why  is  it  that  visions  of  thrilling  loveliness 
so  often  bless  the  sightless  orbs  of  those  whose  eyes  have 
once  been  blessed  with  the  power  of  vision  ? 


148  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

Why  is  it  that  the  delirious  dreams  of  the  famine-stricken, 
are  of  tables  loaded  with  the  richest  viands,  or  groves,  whose 
pendent  boughs  droop  with  their  delicious  burdens  of  lus 
cious  fruit? 

Why  is  it  that  haunting  tones  of  sweetest  melody  come 
to  us  in  the  deep  stillness  of  midnight,  when  the  thousand 
tongues  of  man  and  nature  are  for  a  season  mute  1 

Why  is  it  that  the  desert-traveller  looks  forward  upon  the 
burning  boundless  waste,  and  sees  pictured  before  his  aching 
eyes,  some  verdant  oasis,  with  its  murmuring  streams,  its 
gushing  founts,  and  shadowy  groves — but  as  he  presses  on 
with  faltering  step,  the  bright  mirage  recedes,  until  he  lies 
down  to  die  of  weariness  upon  the  scorching  sands,  with  that 
isle  of  loveliness  before  him  ? 

Oh  tell  me  why  is  this,  and  I  will  tell  why  the  factory  girl 
sits  in  the  hour  of  meditation,  and  thinks — not  of  the  crowded 
clattering  mill,  nor  of  the  noisy  tenement  which  is  her  home, 
nor  of  the  thronged  and  busy  street  which  she  may  some 
times  tread, — but  of  the  still  and  lovely  scenes  which,  in  by 
gone  hours,  have  sent  their  pure  and  elevating  influence  with 
a  thrilling  sweep  across  the  strings  of  the  spirit-harp,  and  then 
awaken  its  sweetest,  loftiest  notes  ;  and  ever  as  she  sits  in 
silence  and  seclusion,  endeavoring  to  draw  from  that  many- 
toned  instrument  a  strain  which  may  be  meet  for  another's 
ear,  that  music  comes  to  the  eager  listener  like  the  sound 
with  which  the  sea-shell  echoes  the  roar  of  what  was  once 
its  watery  home.  All  her  best  and  holiest  thoughts  are  linked 
with  those  bright  pictures  which  call  them  forth,  and  when 
she  would  embody  them  for  the  instruction  of  others,  she  does 
it  by  a  delineation  of  those  scenes  which  have  quickened  and 
purified  her  own  mind. 

It  was  this  love  of  nature's  beauties,  and  a  yearning  for 
the  pure  hallowed  feelings  which  those  beauties  had  been 
wont  to  call  up  from  their  hidden  springs  in  the  depths  of  the 
soul,  to  bear  away  upon  their  swelling  tide  the  corruption 
which  had  gathered,  and  I  feared  might  settle  there, — it  was 
this  love,  and  longing,  and  fear,  which  made  my  heart  throb 
quickly,  as  I  sent  forth  a  momentary  glance  from  the  factory 
window. 

I  think  I  said  there  was  a  cloudless  sky  ;  but  it  was  not  so. 
It  was  clear,  and  soft,  and  its  beauteous  hue  was  of  "  the 
hyacinth's  deep  blue" — but  there  was  one  bright  solitary 
cloud,  far  up  in  the  cerulean  vault ;  and  I  wished  that  it  might 


A  WEAVER'S  REVERIE.  140 

for  once  be  in  ray  power  to  lie  down  upon  that  white,  fleecy 
couch,  and  there,  away  and  alone,  to  dream  of  all  things 
holy,  calm,  and  beautiful.  Metliought  that  better  feelings, 
and  clearer  thoughts  than  are  often  wont  to  visit  me,  would 
there  take  undisturbed  possession  of  my  soul. 

And  might  I  not  be  there,  and  send  my  unobstructed  glance 
into  the  depths  of  ether  above  me,  and  forget  for  a  little 
while  that  I  had  ever  been  a  foolish,  wayward,  guilty  child 
of  earth  ?  Could  I  not  then  cast  aside  the  burden  of  error 
and  sin  which  must  ever  depress  me  here,  and  with  the  ma 
turity  of  womanhood,  feel  also  the  innocence  of  infancy  ? 
And  with  that  sense  of  purity  and  perfection,  there  would 
necessarily  be  mingled  a  feeling  of  sweet  uncloying  bliss — 
such  as  imagination  may  conceive,  but  which  seldom  pervades 
and  sanctifies  the  earthly  heart.  Might  I  not  look  down  from 
my  aerial  position,  and  view  this  little  world,  and  its  hills, 
valleys,  plains,  and  streamlets,  and  its  thousands  of  busy  in 
habitants,  and  see  how  puerile  and  unsatisfactory  it  would 
look  to  one  so  totally  disconnected  from  it  ?  Yes,  there,  upon 
that  soft  snowy  cloud  could  I  sit,  and  gaze  upon  my  native 
earth,  and  feel  how  empty  and  "  vain  are  all  things  here 
below." 

But  not  motionless  would  1  stay  upon  that  aerial  couch. 
I  would  call  upon  the  breezes  to  waft  me  away  over  the  broad 
blue  ocean,  and  with  nought  but  the  clear  bright  ether  above 
me,  have  nought  but  a  boundless,  sparkling,  watery  expanse 
below  me.  Then  I  would  look  down  upon  the  vessels  pur 
suing  their  different  courses  across  the  bright  waters  ;  and  as 
I  watched  their  toilsome  progress,  I  should  feel  how  blessed 
a  thing  it  is  to  be  where  no  impediment  of  wind  or  wave 
might  obstruct  my  onward  way. 

But  when  the  beams  of  a  midday  sun  had  ceased  to  flash 
from  the  foaming  sea,  I  should  wish  my  cloud  to  bear  away 
to  the  western  sky,  and  divesting  itself  of  its  snowy  white 
ness,  stand  there,  arrayed  in  the  brilliant  hues  of  the  setting 
sun.  Yes,  well  should  I  love  to  be  stationed  there,  and  see  it 
catch  those  parting  rays,  and,  transforming  them  to  dyes  of 
purple  and  crimson,  shine  forth  in  its  evening  vestment, 
with  a  border  of  brightest  gold.  Then  could  I  watch  the 
king  of  day  as  he  sinks  into  his  watery  bed,  leaving  behind 
a  line  of  crimson  light  to  mark  the  path  which  led  him  to  his 
place  of  rest. 

Yet  once,  O  only  once,  should  I  love  to  have  that  cloud 
13 


150  MIND    AMONGST    THE  SPINDLES. 

pass  on — on — on  among  the  myriads  of  stars  ;  and  leaving 
them  all  behind,  go  far  away  into  the  empty  void  of  space 
beyond.  I  should  love,  for  once,  to  be  alone.  Alone!  where 
could  I  be  alone  ?  But  I  would  fain  be  where  there  is  no 
other,  save  the  INVISIBLE,  and  there,  where  not  even  one 
distant  star  should  send  its  feeble  rays  to  tell  of  a  universe 
beyond,  there  would  I  rest  upon  that  soft  light  cloud,  and 
with  a  fathomless  depth  below  me,  and  a  measureless  waste 

above  and  around  me,  there  would  I 

"  Your  looms  are  going  without  filling,"  said  a  loud  voice 
at  my  elbow  ;  so  I  ran  as  fast  as  possible  and  changed  my 
shuttles. 

ELLA. 


OUR  DUTY  TO  STRANGERS. 

"  Deal  gently  with  the  stranger's  heart." — MRS.  HEMANS. 

THE  factory  girl  has  trials,  as  every  one  of  the  class  can 
testify.  It  was  hard  for  thee  to  leave 

"  Thy  hearth,  thy  home,  thy  vintage  land. 
The  voices  of  thy  hindred  band/' — 

was  it  not,  my  sister  1  Yes,  there  was  a  burden  at  your 
heart  as  you  turned  away  from  father,  mother,  sister,  and 
brother,  to  meet  the  cold  glance  of  strange  stage-companions, 
There  was  the  mournfulness  of  the  funeral  dirge  and  knell, 
in  the  crack  of  the  driver's  whip,  and  in  the  rattling  of  the 
coach-wheels.  And  when  the  last  familiar  object  receded 
from  your  fixed  gaze,  there  was  a  sense  of  utter  desolation 
at  your  heart.  There  was  a  half-formed  wish  that  you  could 
lie  down  on  your  own  bed,  and  die,  rather  than  encounter  the 
new  trials  before  you. 

Home  may  be  a  capacious  farm-house,  or  a  lowly  cottage, 
it  matters  not.  It  is  home.  It  is  the  spot  around  which  the 
dearest  affections  and  hopes  of  the  heart  cluster  and  rest. 
When  we  turn  away,  a  thousand  tendrils  are  broken,  and 
they  bleed. — Lovelier  scenes  might  open  before  us,  but  that 


OUR    DUTY    TO    STRANGERS.  151 

only  "  the  loved  are  lovely."  Yet  until  new  interests  are 
awakened,  and  new  loves  adopted,  there  is  a  constant 
heaviness  of  heart,  more  oppressive  than  can  be  imagined  by 
those  who  have  never  felt  it. 

The  "  kindred  band  "  may  be  made  up  of  the  intelligent 
and  elegant,  or  of  the  illiterate  and  vulgar ;  it  matters  not. 
Our  hearts  yearn  for  their  companionship.  We  would  rejoice 
with  them  in  health,  or  watch  over  them  in  sickness. 

In  all  seasons  of  trial,  whether  from  sickness,  fatigue, 
unkindness,  or  ennui,  there  is  one  bright  oasis.  It  is 

— — — "  the  hope  of  return  to  the  mother,  whose  smile 

Could  dissipate  sadness  and  sorrow  beguile  ; 

To  the  father,  whose  glance  we've  exultingly  met — 

And  no  meed  half  so  proud  hath  awaited  us  yet ; 

To  the  sister  whose  tenderness,  breathing  a  charm, 

No  distance  could  lessen,  no  danger  disarm  ; 

To  the  friends,  whose  remembrances  time  cannot  chill. 

And  whose  home  in  the  heart  not  the  stranger  can  fill." 

This  hope  is  invaluable  ;  for  it, 

"  like  the  ivy  round  the  oak, 
Clings  closer  in  the  storm." 

Alas  !  that  there  are  those  to  whom  this  hope  comes  not ! 
those  whose  affections  go  out,  like  Noah's  dove,  in  search  of 
a  resting  place  ;  and  return  without  the  olive-leaf. 

"  Death  is  in  the  world,"  and  it  has  made  hundreds  of  our 
factory  girls  orphans.  Misfortunes  are  abroad,  and  they  have 
left  as  many  destitute  of  homes.  This  is  a  melancholy  fact, 
and  one  that  calls  loudly  for  the  sympathy  and  kind  offices 
of  the  more  fortunate  of  the  class.  It  is  not  a  light  thing  to 
be  alone  in  the  world.  It  is  not  a  light  thing  to  meet  only 
neglect  and  selfishness,  when  one  longs  for  disinterestedness 
and  love.  Oh,  then,  let  us 

"  Deal  gently  with  the  stranger's  heart/' 

especially  if  the  stranger  be  a  destitute  orphan.  Her  garb 
may  be  homely,  and  her  manners  awkward  ;  but  we  will  take 
her  to  our  heart,  and  call  her  sister.  Some  glaring  faults 
may  be  hers  ;  but  we  will  remember  "who  it  is  that  maketh 
us  to  differ,"  and  if  possible,  by  our  kindness  and  forbear 
ance,  win  her  to  virtue  and  peace. 


152  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

There  are  many  reasons  why  we  should  do  this.  It  is  a 
part  of  "  pure  and  undefiled  religion  "  to  "  visit  the  father 
less  in  their  afflictions."  And  "  mercy  is  twice  blest ;  blest 
in  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes."  In  the  beautiful 
language  of  the  simple  Scotch  girl,  "  When  the  hour  o' 
trouble  comes,  that  comes  to  mind  and  body,  and  when  the 
hour  o'  death  comes,  that  comes  to  high  and  low,  oh,  my 
leddy,  then  it  is  na'  what  we  ha'  done  for  ourselves,  but 
what  we  ha'  done  for  others,  that  we  think  on  maist  pleas 
antly." 

E. 


ELDER  ISAAC  TOWNSEND. 

ELDER  TOWNSEND  was  a  truly  meek  and  pious  man.  He 
was  not  what  is  called  learned,  being  bred  a  farmer,  and  never 
having  had  an  opportunity  of  attending  school  but  very  little 
• — for  school  privileges  were  very  limited  when  Elder  Towns- 
end  was  young.  His  chief  knowledge  was  what  he  had 
acquired  by  studying  the  Bible  (which  had  been  his  constant 
companion  from  early  childhood,)  and  a  study  of  human 
nature,  as  he  had  seen  it  exemplified  in  the  lives  of  those  with 
whom  he  held  intercourse. 

Although  a  Gospel  preacher  for  more  than  forty  years,  he 
never  received  a  salary.  He  owned  a  farm  of  some  forty 
acres,  which  he  cultivated  himself;  and  when,  by  reason  of 
ill  health,  or  from  having  to  attend  to  pastoral  duties,  his 
farming-work  was  not  so  forward  as  that  of  his  neigh 
bors,  he  would  ask  his  parishioners  to  assist  him  for  a  day, 
or  a  half-day,  according  to  his  necessities.  As  this  waa 
the  only  pay  he  ever  asked  for  his  continuous  labors  with 
them,  he  never  received  a  denial,  and  a  pittance  so  trifling 
could  not  be  given  grudgingly.  The  days  which  were  spent 
on  Elder  Townsend's  farm  were  not  considered  by  his  par 
ishioners  as  days  of  toil,  but  as  holydays,  from  whose  recre 
ations  they  were  sure  to  return  home  richly  laden  with  the 
blessings  of  their  good  pastor. 

The  sermons  of  Elder  T.  were  always  extempore  ;  and  if 
they  were  not  always  delivered  with  the  elocution  of  an  orator, 


HARRIET    GRKENOUGH.  153 

they  were  truly  excellent,  inasmuch  as  they  consisted  princi 
pally  of  passages  of  Scripture,  judiciously  selected,  and  well 
connected. 

The  Elder's  intimate  knowledge  of  his  flock,  and  their 
habits  and  propensities,  their  joys  and  their  sorrows,  together 
with  his  thorough  acquaintance  with  the  Scriptures,  enabled 
him  to  be  ever  in  readiness  to  give  reproof  or  consolation  (as 
need  might  be,)  in  the  language  of  Holy  Writ.  His  reproofs 
were  received  with  meekness,  and  the  recipients  would  re 
solve  to  profit  thereby  ;  and  when  he  offered  the  cup  of  con 
solation,  it  was  received  with  gratitude  by  those  who  stood 
in  need  of  its  healing  influences.  But  when  he  dwelt  on  the 
loving-kindness  of  our  God,  all  hearts  would  rejoice  and  be 
glad.  Often,  while  listening  to  his  preaching,  have  I  sat 
with  eyes  intently  gazing  on  the  speaker,  until  I  fancied  my 
self  transported  back  to  the  days  of  the  "  beloved  disciple," 
and  on  the  Isle  of  Patmos  was  hearing  him  say,  "  My  little 
children,  love  one  another." 

When  I  last  saw  Elder  Townsend,  his  head  was  white 
with  the  frosts  of  more  than  seventy  winters.  It  is  many 
years  since.  I  presume,  ere  this,  he  sleeps  beneath  the  turf 
on  the  hill-side,  and  is  remembered  among  the  worthies  of 
the  olden  time. 

B.  N. 


HARRIET  GREENOUGH. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  The  day  is  come  I  never  thought  to  see, 
Strange  revolutions  in  my  farm  and  me." 

DRYDKN'S  VIRGIL. 

HARRIET  GREENOUGH  had  always  been  thought  a  spoiled 
child,  when  she  left  home  for  Newburyport.  Her  father  was 
of  the  almost  obsolete  class  of  farmers,  whose  gods  are  their 
farms,  and  whose  creed — "  Farmers  are  the  most  independ 
ent  folks  in  the  world."  This  latter  was  none  the  less  abso 
lute  in  its  power  over  Mr.  Greenough,  from  its  being  entirely 
traditionary.  He  often  repeated  a  vow  made  in  early  life, 


154  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

that  he  would  never  wear  other  than  "  homespun  "  cloth. 
When  asked  his  reasons,  he  invariably  answered,  "  Because 
I  won't  depend  on  others  for  what  I  can  furnish  myself. 
Farmers  are  the  most  independent  class  of  men  ;  and  I  mean 
to  be  the  most  independent  of  farmers." — If  for  a  moment 
he  felt  humbled  by  the  presence  of  a  genteel  well-educated 
man,  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  He  had  only  to  recollect 
that  farmers  are  the  most  independent  class  of  people,  and 
his  head  resumed  its  wonted  elevation,  his  manner  and  tone 
their  usual  swaggering  impudence. 

While  at  school  he  studied  nothing  but  reading,  spelling, 
arithmetic,  and  writing.  Latterly,  his  reading  had  been 
restricted  to  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  per  day,  and  an  occasional 
examination  of  the  almanac.  He  did  not  read  his  Bible  from 
devotional  feeling — for  he  had  none  ;  but  that  he  might  puz 
zle  the  "  book  men  "  of  the  village  with  questions  like  the 
following  : — **  Now  I  should  like  to  have  you  tell  me  one 
thing  :  How  could  Moses  write  an  account  of  his  own  death 
and  burial  ?  Can  you  just  tell  me  where  Cain  and  Abel 
found  their  wives  ?  What  verse  is  there  in  the  Bible  that 
has  but  two  words  in  it  1  Who  was  the  father  of  Zebedee's 
children ?  How  many  chapters  has  the  New  Testament  ? — 
How  many  verses,  and  how  many  words?"  Inability  or 
disinclination  to  answer  any  and  all  of  these,  made  the  sub 
ject  of  a  day's  laughter  and  triumph. 

Nothing  was  so  appalling  to  him  as  innovations  on  old 
customs  and  opinions.  "  These  notions,  that  the  earth  turns 
round,  and  the  sun  stands  still ;  that  shooting  stars  are  noth 
ing  but  little  meteors,  I  think  they  call  them,  are  turning  the 
heads  of  our  young  folks,"  he  was  accustomed  to  say  to 
Mr.  Curtis,  the  principal  of  the  village  academy,  every  time 
they  met.  "  And  then  these  new-fangled  books,  filled  with 
jaw-cracking  words  and  falsehoods,  chemistry,  philosophy, 
and  so  on — why,  I  wonder  if  they  ever  made  any  man  a  better 
farmer,  or  helped  a  woman  to  make  better  butter  and  cheese  ? 
Now,  Mr.  Curtis,  it  is  my  opinion  that  young  folks  had  better 
read  their  Bibles  more.  Now  I'll  warrant  that  not  one  in 
ten  can  tell  how  many  chapters  there  are  in  it.  My  father 
knew  from  the  time  he  was  eight  till  he  was  eighty.  Can 
you  telly  Mr.  Curtis?  " 

Mr.  Curtis  smiled  a  negative  ;  and  Mr.  Greenough  went 
laughing  about  all  day.  Indeed,  for  a  week,  the  first  thing 
that  came  after  his  blunt  salutation,  was  a  loud  laugh  ;  and 


HARRIET    GREENOUGH.  155 

in  answer  to  consequent  inquiries  came  the  recital  of  his  vic 
tory  over  *'  the  great  Mr.  Curtis."  He  would  not  listen  a 
moment  to  arguments  in  favor  of  sending  Harriet  to  the  acad 
emy,  or  of  employing  any  other  teachers  in  his  district  than 
old  Master  Smith,  and  Miss  Heath,  a  superanuated  spinster. 

Mrs.  Greenough  was  a  mild  creature,  passionless  and  gen 
tle  in  her  nature  as  a  lamb.  She  acquiesced  in  all  of  her 
husband's  measures,  whether  from  having  no  opinions  of  her 
own,  or  from  a  deep  and  quiet  sense  of  duty  and  propriety, 
no  one  knew.  Harriet  was  their  pet.  As  rosy,  laughing, 
and  healthy  as  a  Hebe,  she  flew  from  sport  to  sport  all  tli-; 
day  long.  Her  mother  attempted,  at  first,  to  check  her 
romping  propensity  ;  but  it  delighted  her  father,  and  he  took 
every  opportunity  to  strengthen  and  confirm  it.  He  was  never 
so  happy  as  when  watching  her  swift  and  eager  pursuit  of  a 
butterfly  ;  never  so  lavish  of  his  praises  and  caresses  as  when 
she  succeeded  in  capturing  one,  and  all  breathless  with  the 
chase,  bore  her  prize  to  him. 

"  Do  stay  in  the  house  with  poor  ma,  to-day,  darling  ;  sho 
is  very  lonely,"  her  mother  would  say  to  her,  as  she  put 
back  the  curls  from  the  beautiful  face  of  her  child,  and  kissed 
her  cheek.  One  day  a  tear  was  in  her  eye  and  a  sadness  at 
her  heart ;  for  she  had  been  thinking  of  the  early  childhood 
of  her  Harriet,  when  she  turned  from  father,  little  brother, 
playthings  and  all,  for  her.  Harriet  seemed  to  understand 
her  feelings  ;  for  instead  of  answering  her  with  a  spring  and 
laugh  as  usual,  she  sat  quietly  down  at  her  feet,  and  laid  her 
head  on  her  lap.  Mr.  Greenough  came  in  at  this  moment. 

"  How  !  What  does  this  mean,  wife  and  Hatty  ?  "  said 
he.—"  Playing  the  baby,  Hat  ?  Wife,  this  won't  do.  Har 
riet  has  your  beauty  ;  and  to  this  I  have  no  objections,  if  she 
has  my  spirits  and  independence.  Come,  Hatty  ;  we  want 
you  to  help  us  make  hay  to-day  ;  and  there  are  lots  of  but 
terflies  and  grasshoppers  for  you  to  catch.  Come,"  he  added  : 
for  the  child  still  kept  her  eyes  on  her  mother's  face,  as  it' 
undecided  whether  to  go  or  stay.  "  Come,  get  your  bonnet 
—no  ;  you  may  go  without  it.  You  look  too  much  like  a 
village  girl.  You  must  get  more  tan." 

••  Shall  I  go,  ma  ?  "  Harriet  asked,  still  clinging  to  her 
mother's  dress. 

"  Certainly,  if  pa  wishes  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Greenough 
with  a  strong  effort  to  speak  cheerfully. 

She  went,  and  from  that  hour  Mrs.  Greenough  passively 


156  MIND     AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

allowed  her  to  follow  her  father  and  his  laborers  as  she  pleas 
ed  ;  to  rake  hay,  ride  in  the  cart,  husk  corn,  hunt  hen's  eggs, 
jump  on  the  hay,  play  ball,  prisoner,  pitch  quoits,  throw  dice, 
cut  and  saw  wood,  and,  indeed,  to  run  into  every  amusement 
which  her  active  temperament  demanded.  She  went  to 
school  when  she  pleased  ;  but  her  father  was  constant  in  his 
hints  that  her  spirits  and  independence  were  not  to  be  des 
troyed  by  poring  over  books.  She  was  generally  left  to  do 
as  she  pleased,  although  she  was  often  pleased  to  perpetrate 
deeds,  for  which  her  schoolmates  often  asserted  they  would 
have  been  severely  chastised.  There  was  an  expression  of 
fun  and  good  humor  lurking  about  in  the  dimples  of  her  fat 
cheeks  and  in  her  deep  blue  eye,  that  effectually  shielded  her 
from  reproof.  Master  Smith  had  just  been  accused  of  par 
tiality  to  her,  and  he  walked  into  the  school  considerably 
taller  than  usual,  all  from  his  determination  to  punish  Harriet 
before  night.  He  was  not  long  in  detecting  her  in  a  rogue- 
ish  act.  He  turned  from  her  under  the  pretence  of  looking 
some  urchins  into  silence,  and  said,  with  uncommon  sternness 
and  precision,  "Harriet  Greenough,  walk  out  into  the  floor." 
Harriet  jumped  up,  shook  the  hands  of  those  who  sat  near 
her,  nodded  a  farewell  to  others,  and  walked  gaily  up  to  the 
master.  He  dreaded  meeting  her  eye  ;  for  he  knew  that  his 
gravity  would  desert  him  in  such  a  case.  She  took  a  posi 
tion  behind  him,  and  in  a  moment  the  whole  house  was  in  an 
uproar  of  laughter.  Master  Smith  turned  swiftly  about  on 
his  heel,  and  confronted  the  culprit.  She  only  smiled  and 
made  him  a  most  graceful  courtesy.  This  was  too  much  for 
his  risibles.  He  laughed  almost  as  heartily  as  his  pupils. 

"  Take  your  seat,  you,  he  !  he !  you  trollop,  you,  he ! 
he  !  and  I  will  settle  with  you  by  and  bye,"  he  said. 

She  only  thanked  him,  and  then  returned  to  her  sport. 

So  she  passed  on.  When  sixteen,  she  was  a  very  child 
in  everything  but  years  and  form.  Her  forehead  was  high 
and  full,  but  a  want  of  taste  and  care  in  the  arrangement  of 
her  beautiful  hair  destroyed  its  effect.  Her  complexion  was 
clear,  but  sun-burnt.  Her  laugh  was  musical,  but  one  missed 
that  tone  which  distinguishes  the  laugh  of  a  happy  feeling 
girl  of  sixteen  from  that  of  a  child  of  mere  frolic.  As  to 
Jier  form,  no  one  knew  what  it  was  ;  for  she  was  always  put 
ting  herself  into  some  strange  but  not  really  uncouth  attitude  ; 
and  besides,  she  could  never  stop  to  adjust  her  dress  properly. 

Such  was  Harriet  Greenough,  when  a  cousin  of  hers  paid 


HARRIET    GREENOUGH.  157 

them  a  visit  on  her  return  to  the  Newburyport  mills.  She 
was  of  Harriet's  age  ;  but  one  would  have  thought  her  ten 
years  her  senior,  judging  from  her  superior  dignity  and  in 
telligence.  Her  father  died  when  she  was  a  mere  child, 
after  a  protracted  illness,  which  left  them  penniless.  By 
means  of  untiring  industry,  and  occasional  gifts  from  her 
kind  neighbors,  Mrs.  Wood  succeeded  in  keeping  her  chil 
dren  at  school,  until  her  daughter  was  sixteen  and  her  son 
fourteen.  They  then  went  together  to  Newburyport,  under 
the  care  of  a  very  amiable  girl  who  had  spent  several  years 
there.  They  worked  a  year,  devoting  a  few  hours  every 
day  to  study  ;  then  returned  home,  and  spent  a  year  at 
school  in  their  native  village. 

They  were  now  on  their  return  to  the  mills.  It  was  ar 
ranged  that  at  the  completion  of  the  present  year  Charles 
should  return  to  school,  and  remain  there  until  fitted  for  the 
study  of  a  profession,  if  Jane's  health  was  spared  that  she 
might  labor  for  his  support. 

Jane  was  a  gentle  affectionate  girl  ;  and  there  was  a  new 
feeling  at  the  heart  of  Harriet  from  the  day  in  which  she 
came  under  her  influence.  Before  the  week  had  half  ex 
pired  which  Jane  was  to  spend  with  them,  Harriet,  with 
characteristic  decision,  avowed  her  determination  to  accom 
pany  her.  Her  father  and  mother  had  opposed  her  will  in 
but  few  instances.  In  these  few  she  had  laughed  them  into 
an  easy  compliance.  In  the  present  case  she  found  her  task 
a  more  difficult  one.  But  they  consented  at  last;  and  with 
her  mother's  tearful  blessing,  and  an  injunction  from  her 
father  not  to  bear  any  insolence  from  her  employers,  but  to 
remember  always  that  she  was  the  independent  daughter  of 
an  independent  farmer,  she  left  her  home. 


CHAPTER    II. 

A  YEAR  passed  by,  and  our  Harriet  was  a  totally  changed 
being,  in  intellect  and  deportment.  Her  cousins  boarded  in 
a  small  family,  that  they  might  have  a  better  opportunity  of 
pursuing  their  studies  during  their  leisure  hours.  She  was 
their  constant  companion.  At  first  she  did  not  open  a  book  ; 
and  numberless  were  the  roguish  artifices  she  employed  to 
divert  the  attention  of  her  cousins  from  theirs.  They  often 
laid  them  aside  for  a  lively  chat  with  her  ;  and  then  urged 


158  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

her  to  study  with  them.  She  loved  them  ardently.  To  her 
affection  she  at  last  yielded,  and  not  to  any  anticipations  of 
pleasure  or  profit  in  the  results,  for  she  had  been  educated  to 
believe  that  there  was  none  of  either. 

Charles  had  been  studying  Latin  and  mathematics  ;  Jane, 
botany,  geology,  and  geography  of  the  heavens.  She 
instructed  Charles  in  these  latter  sciences  ;  he  initiated  her 
as  well  as  he  might,  into  the  mysteries  of  Az'c,  hce.c,  hoc,  and 
algebra.  At  times  of  recitation,  Harriet  sat  and  laughed  at 
their  "queer  words."  When  she  accompanied  them  in 
their  search  for  flowers,  she  amused  herself  by  bringing 
mullen,  yarrow,  and,  in  one  instance,  a  huge  sunflower. — 
When  they  had  traced  constellations,  she  repeated  to  them  a 
satire  on  star-gazers,  which  she  learned  of  her  father. 

The  histories  of  the  constellations  and  flowers  first  arrested 
her  attention,  and  kindled  a  romance  which  had  hitherto 
lain  dormant.  A  new  light  was  in  her  eye  from  that  hour, 
and  a  new  charm  in  her  whole  deportment.  She  commenced 
study  under  very  discouraging  circumstances.  Of  this  she 
was  deeply  sensible.  She  often  shed  a  few  tears  as  she 
thought  of  her  utter  ignorance,  then  dashed  them  off,  and 
studied  with  renewed  diligence  and  success.  She  studied 
two  hours  every  morning  before  commencing  labor  and  until 
half  past  eleven  at  night.  She  took  her  book  and  her  dinner 
to  the  mil],  that  she  might  have  the  whole  intermission  for 
study.  This  short  season,  with  the  reflection  she  gave  during 
the  afternoon,  was  sufficiant  for  the  mastery  of  a  hard  lesson. 
She  was  close  in  her  attendance  at  the  sanctuary.  She 
joined  a  Bible  class ;  and  the  teachings  there  fell  with  a 
sanctifying  influence  on  her  spirit,  subduing  but  not  destroy 
ing  its  vivacity,  and  opening  a  new  current  to  her  thoughts 
and  affections.  Although  tears  of  regret  for  misspent 
years  often  stole  down  her  cheeks,  she  assured  Jane  that 
she  was  happier  at  the  moment  than  in  her  hours  of  loudest 
mirth. 

Her  letters  to  her  friends  had  prepared  them  for  a  change, 
but  not  for  such  a  change — so  great  and  so  happy.  She 
was  now  a  very  beautiful  girl,  easy  and  graceful  in  her 
manners,  soft  and  gentle  in  her  conversation,  and  evidently 
conscious  of  her  superiority,  only  to  feel  more  humble,  more 
grateful  to  Heaven,  her  dear  cousins,  her  minister,  her  Sab 
bath  school  teacher,  and  other  beloved  friends,  who  by  their 
kindness  had  opened  such  new  and  delightful  springs  of 
feeling  in  her  heart. 


HARRIET   GBEENOUGH.  159 

She  flung  her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck,  and  wept 
tears  of  gratitude  and  love.  Mrs.  Greenough  felt  that  she 
was  no  longer  alone  in  the  world  ;  and  Mr.  Greenough,  as 
he  watched  them — the  wife  and  the  daughter — inwardly 
acknowledged  that  there  was  that  in  the  world  dearer  to  his 
heart  than  his  farm  and  his  independence. 

Amongst  Harriet's  baggage  was  a  rough  deal  box.  This 
was  first  opened.  It  contained  her  books,  a  few  minerals 
and  shells.  There  were  fifty  well-selected  volumes,  besides 
a  package  of  gifts  for  her  ifather,  mother,  and  brother. — 
There  was  no  book-case  in  the  house  ;  and  the  kitchen  shelf 
was  full  of  old  almanacs,  school  books,  sermons,  and  jest 
books.  Mr.  Greenough  rode  to  the  village,  and  returned 
with  a  rich  secretary,  capacious  enough  for  books,  minerals, 
and  shells.  He  brought  the  intelligence,  too,  that  a  large 
party  of  students  and  others  were  to  spend  the  evening  with 
them.  Harriet's  heart  beat  quick,  as  she  thought  of  young 
Curtis,  and  wondered  if  he  was  among  the  said  students. — 
Before  she  left  Bradford,  struck  with  the  beauty  and  sim 
plicity  of  her  appearance,  he  sought  and  obtained  an  intro 
duction  to  her,  but  left  her  side,  after  sundry  ineffectual 
attempts  to  draw  her  into  conversation,  disappointed  and 
disgusted.  He  ivas  among  Harriet's  visitors. 

"  Pray,  Miss  Curtis,  what  may  be  your  opinion  of  our 
belle,  Miss  Greenough?  "  asked  young'Lane,  on  the  follow 
ing  morning,  as  Mr.  Curtis  and  his  sister  entered  the  hall  of 
the  academy. 

"  Why,  I  think  that  her  improvement  has  been  astonish 
ingly  rapid  during  the  past  year ;  and  that  she  is  now  a 
really  charming  girl." 

"  Has  she  interfered  with  your  heart,  Lane?  "  asked  his 
chum. 

"  As  to  that,  I  do  not  feel  entirely  decided.  I  think  I 
shall  renew  my  call,  however — nay,  do  not  frown,  Curtis  ;  I 
was  about  to  add,  if  it  be  only  to  taste  her  father's  delicious 
melons,  pears,  plums,  and  apples." 

Curtis  blushed  slightly,  bowed,  and  passed  on  to  the 
school  room.  He  soon  proved  that  he  cared  much  less  for 
Mr.  Greenough's  fruit  than  for  his  daughter:  for  the  fruit 
remained  untasted  if  Harriet  was  at  his  side.  He  was  never 
so  happy  as  when  Mr.  Greenough  announced  his  purpose  of 
sending  Harriet  to  the  academy  two  or  three  years.  Ar 
rangements  were  made  accordingly,  and  the  week  before 


160  MIND    AMONGST    THE     SPINDLES. 

Charles  left  home  for  college,  she  was  duly  installed  in  his 
father's  family. 

She  missed  him  much  ;  but  the  loss  of  his  society  was 
partially  counterbalanced  by  frequent  and  brotherly  letters 
from  him,  and  by  weekly  visits  to  her  home,  which  by  the 
way.  is  becoming  quite  a  paradise  under  her  supervision. — 
She  has  been  studying  painting  and  drawing.  Several  well- 
executed  specimens  of  each  adorn  the  walls  and  tables  of 
their  sitting-room  and  parlor.  She  has  no  "  regular  built  " 
centre-table,  but  in  lieu  thereof  she  has  removed  from  the 
garret  an  old  round  table  that  belonged  to  her  grandmother. 
This  she  has  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  sitting-room  ;  and 
what  with  its  very  pretty  covering  (which  falls  so  near  the 
floor  as  to  conceal  its  uncouth  legs),  and  its  books,  it  forms 
no  mean  item  of  elegance  and  convenience. 

Mr.  Greenough  and  his  help  have  improved  a  few  leisure 
days  in  removing  the  trees  that  entirely  concealed  the  Mer- 
rimac.  By  the  profits  resulting  from  their  sale,  he  has 
built  a  neat  and  tasteful  enclosure  for  his  house  and  garden. 
This  autumn  shade-trees  and  shrubbery  are  to  be  removed 
to  the  yard,  and  fruit-trees  and  vines  to  the  garden.  Next 
winter  a  summer-house  is  to  be  put  in  readiness  for  erection 
in  the  spring. 

All  this,  and  much  more,  Mr.  Greenough  is  confident  he 
can  accomplish,  without  neglecting  his  necessary  labors,  or 
the  course  of  reading  he  has  marked  out,  "  by  and  with  the 
advice  "  of  his  wife  and  Harriet.  And  more,  and  better 
still,  he  has  decided  that  his  son  George  shall  attend  school, 
at  least  two  terms  yearly.  He  will  board  at  home,  and  will 
be  accompanied  by  his  cousin  Charles,  whom  Mr.  Green 
ough  has  offered  to  board  gratis,  until  his  education  is  com 
pleted.  By  this  generosity  on  the  part  of  her  uncle,  Jane 
will  be  enabled  to  defray  other  expenses  incidental  to 
Charles's  education,  and  still  have  leisure  for  literary  pur 
suits. 

Most  truly  might  Mr.  Greenough  say, — 

"  The  day  is  come  I  never  thought  to  see, 
Strange  revolutions  in  my  farm  and  me." 

A. 


FANCY.  161 


FANCY. 

0  SWIFTLY  flies  the  shuttle  now, 
Swift  as  an  arrow  from  the  bow  : 

But  swifter  than  the  thread  is  wrought, 
Is  soon  the  flight  of  busy  thought ; 
For  fancy  leaves  the  mill  behind, 
And  seeks  some  novel  scenes  to  find. 
And  now  away  she  quickly  hies — 
O'er  hill  and  dale  the  truant  flies. 
Stop,  silly  maid  !  where  dost  thou  go  ? 
Thy  road  may  be  a  road  of  woe  : 
Some  hand  may  crush  thy  fairy  form, 
And  chill  thy  heart  so  lately  warm. 
"Oh  no,"  she  cries  in  merry  tone, 
11 1  go  to  lands  before  unknown  ; 

1  go  in  scenes  of  bliss  to  dwell, 
Where  ne'er  is  heard  a  factory  bell." 

Away  she  went ;  and  soon  I  saw, 
That  Fancy's  wish  was  Fancy's  law  ; 
For  where  the  leafless  trees  were  seen, 
And  Fancy  wished  them  to  be  green, 
Her  wish  she  scarcely  had  made  known, 
Before  green  leaves  were  on  them  grown . 
She  spake — and  there  appear'd  in  view, 
Bright  manly  youths,  and  maidens,  too. 
And  Fancy  called  for  music  rare — 
And  music  filled  the  ravished  air. 

And  then  the  dances  soon  began, 
And  through  the  mazes  lightly  ran 
The  footsteps  of  the  fair  and  gay — 
For  this  was  Fancy's  festal  day. 
On,  on  they  move,  a  lovely  group  ! 
Their  faces  beam  with  joy  and  hope  ; 
Nor  dream  they  of  a  danger  nigh, 
Beneath  their  bright  and  sunny  sky. 
One  of  the  fair  ones  is  their  queen, 
For  whom  they  raise  a  throne  of  green  ; 


162  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

And  Fancy  weaves  a  garland  now, 
To  place  upon  the  maiden's  brow  ; 
And  fragrant  are  the  blooming  flowers, 
In  her  enchanted  fairy-bowers. 

And  Fancy  now  away  may  slip, 
And  o'er  the  green-sward  lightly  skip, 
And  to  her  airy  castle  hie — 
For  Fancy  hath  a  castle  nigh. 
The  festal  board  she  quick  prepares, 
And  every  guest  the  bounty  shares, — 
And  seated  at  the  festal  board, 
Their  merry  voices  now  are  heard, 
As  each  youth  places  to  his  lips, 
And  from  the  golden  goblet  sips 
A  draught  of  the  enchanting  wine 
That  came  from  Fancy's  fruitful  vine. 

But  hark  !  what  sound  salutes  mine  ear  ? 

A  distant  rumbling  now  I  hear. 

Ah,  Fancy  !  'tis  no  groundless  fear, 

The  rushing  whirlwind  draweth  near  ! 

Thy  castle  walls  are  rocking  fast, — 

The  glory  of  thy  feast  is  past ; 

Thy  guests  are  now  beneath  the  wave, — 

Oblivion  is  their  early  grave, 

Thy  fairy  bower  has  vanished — fled  : 

Thy  leafy  tree  are  withered — dead  ! 

Thy  lawn  is  now  a  barren  heath, 

Thy  bright-eyed  maids  are  cold  in  death  ! 

Those  manly  youth  that  were  so  gay, 

Have  vanished  in  the  self-same  way  ! 

Oh  Fancy  !  now  remain  at  home, 
And  be  content  no  more  to  roam  ; 
For  visions  such  as  thine  are  vain, 
And  bring  but  discontent  and  pain. 
Remember,  in  thy  giddy  whirl, 
That  /  am  but  a  factory  girl : 
And  be  content  at  home  to  dwell, 
Though  governed  by  a  "  factory  bell." 

FIDUCIA. 


THE  WIDOW'S  SON.  163 


THE  WIDOW'S  SON. 


AMONG  the  multitudes  of  females  employed  in  our  manu 
facturing  establishments,  persons  are  frequently  to  be  met 
with,  whose  lives  are  interspersed  with  incidents  of  an  inter 
esting  and  even  thrilling  character.  But  seldom  have  I  met 
with  a  person  who  has  manifested  so  deep  devotion,  sucli 
uniform  cheerfulness,  and  withal  so  determined  a  perse 
verance  in  the  accomplishment  of  a  cherished  object,  as  Mrs. 
Jones. 

This  inestimable  lady  was  reared  in  the  midst  of  affluence, 
and  was  early  married  to  the  object  of  her  heart's  affection. 
A  son  was  given  them,  a  sweet  and  lovely  boy.  With 
much  joy  they  watched  the  development  of  his  young  mind, 
especially  as  he  early  manifested  a  deep  devotional  feeling, 
which  was  cultivated  with  the  most  assiduous  attention. 

But  happiness  like  this  may  not  always  continue.  Re 
verses  came.  That  faithful  husband  and  affectionate  father 
was  laid  on  a  bed  of  languishing.  Still  he  trusted  in  God  ; 
and  when  he  felt  that  the  time  of  his  departure  approached, 
he  raised  his  eyes,  and  exclaimed,  "Holy  Father!  Thou 
hast  promised  to  be  the  widow's  God  and  judge,  and  a 
Father  to  the  fatherless  ;  into  Thy  care  I  commit  my  belov 
ed  wife  and  child.  Keep  Thou  them  from  evil,  as  they 
travel  life's  uneven  journey.  May  their  service  be  accepta 
ble  in  thy  sight."  He  then  quietly  fell  asleep. 

Bitter  indeed  were  the  tears  shed  over  his  grave  by  that 
lone  widow  and  her  orphan  boy  ;  yet  they  mourned  not  as 
those  who  mourn  without  hope.  Instead  of  devoting  her 
time  to  unavailing  sorrow,  Mrs.  Jones  turned  her  attention 
to  the  education  of  her  son,  who  was  then  in  his  tenth  year. 
Finding  herself  in  reduced  circumstances,  she  nobly  re 
solved  to  support  her  family  by  her  own  exertions,  and  keep 
her  son  at  school.  With  this  object,  she  procured  plain 
needle-work,  by  which,  with  much  economy,  she  was  ena 
bled  to  live  very  comfortably,  until  Samuel  had  availed 
himself  of  all  the  advantages  presented  him  by  the  common 
schools  and  high  school.  He  was  then  ready  to  enter  col 
lege — but  how  were  the  necessary  funds  to  be  raised  to  de 
fray  his  expenses  ? 


164  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

This  was  not  a  new  question  to  Mrs.  Jones.  She  had 
pondered  it  long  and  deeply,  and  decided  upon  her  course  ; 
yet  she  had  not  mentioned  it  to  her  son,  lest  it  should  divert 
his  mind  from  his  studies.  But  as  the  time  now  rapidly 
approached  when  she  was  to  carry  her  plan  into  operation, 
she  deemed  it  proper  to  acquaint  Samuel  with  the  whole 
scheme. 

As  they  were  alone  in  their  neat  little  parlor,  she  aroused 
him  from  a  fit  of  abstraction,  by  saying,  "  Samuel,  my  dear 
son,  before  your  father  died  we  solemnly  consecrated  you  to 
the  service  of  the  Lord  ;  and  that  you  might  be  the  better 
prepared  to  labor  in  the  gospel  vineyard,  your  father  designed 
to  give  you  a  liberal  education.  He  was  called  home  ;  yet 
through  the  goodness  of  our  Heavenly  Father,  I  have  been 
enabled  thus  far  to  prosecute  his  plan.  It  is  now  time  for 
you  to  enter  college,  and  in  order  to  raise  the  necessary 
funds,  I  have  resolved  to  sell  my  little  stock  of  property,  and 
engage  as  an  operative  in  a  factory." 

At  this  moment,  neighbor  Hall,  an  old-fashioned,  good- 
natured  sort  of  a  man,  entered  very  unceremoniously,  and 
having  heard  the  last  sentence,  replied  :  "  Ah  !  widow,  you 
know  that  I  do  not  like  the  plan  of  bringing  up  our  boys  in 
idleness.  But  then  Samuel  is  such  a  good  boy,  and  so  fond 
of  reading,  that  I  think  it  a  vast  pity  if  he  cannot  read  all 
the  books  in  the  state.  Yes,  send  him  to  college,  widow  ; 
there  he  will  have  reading  to  his  heart's  content.  You 
know  there  is  a  gratuity  provided  for  the  education  of  indi 
gent  and  pious  young  men." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Jones,  "  I  know  it  ;  but  I  am  resolved 
that  if  my  son  ever  obtains  a  place  among  the  servants  of 
the  Prince  of  Peace,  he  shall  stand  forth  unchained  by  the 
bondage  of  men,  and  nobly  exert  the  energies  of  his  mind 
as  the  Lord's  freeman." 

Samuel,  who  had  early  been  taught  the  most  perfect 
obedience,  now  yielded  reluctant  consent  to  this  measure. — 
Little  time  was  requisite  for  arrangements  ;  and  having  con 
verted  her  little  effects  into  cash,  they  who  had  never  before 
been  separated,  now  took  an  affectionate  and  sorrowful 
leave  of  each  other,  and  departed — the  one  to  the  halls  of 
learning,  and  the  other  to  the  power-looms. 

We  shall  now  leave  Samuel  Jones,  and  accompany  his 
mother  to  Dover.  On  her  arrival,  she  assumed  her  maiden 
name,  which  I  shall  call  Lucy  Cambridge  ;  and  such  was 


THE    WIDOW'S    SON.  165 

her  simplicity  and  quietness  of  deportment,  that  she  was 
never  suspected  of  being  other  than  she  seemed.  She  read 
ily  obtained  a  situation  in  a  weave-room,  and  by  industry 
and  close  application,  she  quickly  learned  the  grand  secret 
of  a  successful  weaver — namely,  "  Keep  the  filling  running, 
and  the  web  clear." 

The  wages  were  not  then  reduced  to  the  present  low 
standard,  and  Lucy  transmitted  to  her  son,  monthly,  all, 
saving  enough  to  supply  her  absolute  necessities. 

As  change  is  the  order  of  the  day  in  all  manufacturing 
places,  so,  in  the  course  of  change,  Lucy  became  my  room 
mate  ;  and  she  whom  I  had  before  admired,  secured  my 
love  and  ardent  friendship.  Upon  general  topics  she  con 
versed  freely  ;  but  of  her  history  and  kindred,  never.  Her 
respectful  deportment  was  sufficient  to  protect  her  from 
the  inquiries  of  curiosity ;  and  thus  she  maintained  her 
reserve  until  one  evening  when  I  found  her  sadly  perusing  a 
letter.  I  thought  she  had  been  weeping.  All  the  sympa 
thies  of  my  nature  were  aroused,  and  throwing  my  arms 
around  her  neck,  I  exclaimed,  •'  Dear  Lucy,  does  your  let 
ter  bring  you  bad  news,  or  are  any  of  your  relatives" 1 

hesitated  and  stopped  ;  for,  thought  I,  "  perhaps  she  has  no 
relatives.  I  have  never  heard  her  speak  of  any:  she  may 
be  a  lone  orphan  in  the  world."  It  was  then  she  yielded 
to  sympathy,  what  curiosity  had  never  ventured  to  ask. 
From  that  time  she  continued  to  speak  to  me  of  her  history 
and  hopes.  As  I  have  selected  names  to  suit  myself,  she 
has  kindly  permitted  me  to  make  an  extract  from  her  answer 
to  that  letter,  which  was  as  follows : 

"  My  Dear  Son, — in  your  letter  of  the  16th,  you  entreat 
me  to  leave  the  mill,  saying,  '  I  would  rather  be  a  scaven 
ger,  a  wood-sawyer,  or  anything,  whereby  I  might  honestly 
procure  a  subsistence  for  my  mother  and  myself,  than  have 
you  thus  toil,  early  and  late.  Mother,  the  very  thought  is 
intolerable  !  O  come  away — for  dearly  as  I  love  knowledge, 
I  cannot  consent  to  receive  it  at  the  price  of  my  mother's 
happiness.' 

"  My  son,  it  is  true  that  factory  life  is  a  life  of  toil — but 
I  am  preparing  the  way  for  my  only  son  to  go  forth  as  a 
herald  of  the  cross,  to  preach  repentance  and  salvation  to 
those  who  are  out  of  the  way.  I  am  promoting  an  object 
which  was  very  near  the  heart  of  my  dear  husband.  Where 
fore  I  desire  that  you  will  not  again  think  of  pursuing  any 


166  MIND   AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

other  course  than  the  one  already  marked  out  for  you  ;  for 
you  perceive  that  my  agency  in  promoting  your  success, 
forms  an  important  part  of  my  happiness." 

Often  have  I  seen  her  eyes  sparkle  with  delight  as  she 
mentioned  her  son  and  his  success.  And  after  the  labor  and 
toil  of  attending  "  double  work"  during  the  week,  very  often 
have  I  seen  her  start  with  all  the  elasticity  of  youth,  and  go 
to  the  Post  Office  after  a  letter  from  Samuel.  And  sel 
dom  did  she  return  without  one,  for  he  was  ever  thoughtful 
of  his  mother,  who  was  spending  her  strength  for  him.  And 
he  knew  very  well  that  it  was  essential  to  her  happiness  to 
be  well  informed  of  his  progress  and  welfare. 

Nearly  three  years  had  elapsed  since  Lucy  Cambridge  first 
entered  the  mill,  when  the  stage  stopped  in  front  of  her 
boarding  house,  and  a  young  gentleman  sprang  out,  and  in 
quired  if  Miss  Lucy  Cambridge  was  in.  Immediately  they 
were  clasped  in  each  other's  arms.  This  token  of  mutual 
affection  created  no  small  stir  among  the  boarders.  One  de 
clared,  "  she  thought  it  very  singular  that  such  a  pretty 
young  man  should  fancy  so  old  a  girl  as  Lucy  Cambridge." 
Another  said,  "  she  should  as  soon  think  that  he  would  mar 
ry  his  mother." 

Samuel  Jones  was  tall,  but  of  slender  form.  His  hair, 
which  was  of  the  darkest  brown,  covered  an  unusually  fine 
head.  His  eyes,  of  a  clear  dark  grey,  beaming  with  piety 
and  intelligence,  shed  a  lustre  over  his  whole  countenance, 
which  was  greatly  heightened  by  being  overshadowed  by  a 
deep,  broad  forehead. 

He  visited  his  mother  at  this  time,  to  endeavor  to  persuade 
her  to  leave  the  mill,  and  spend  her  time  in  some  less  labo 
rious  occupation.  He  assured  her  that  he  had  saved  enough 
from  the  stock  she  had  already  sent  him,  to  complete  his  ed 
ucation.  But  she  had  resolved  to  continue  in  her  present 
occupation,  until  her  son  should  have  a  prospect  of  a  perma 
nent  residence  ;  and  he  departed  alone. 

Intelligence  was  soon  conveyed  to  Lucy  that  a  young 
student  had  preached  occasionally,  and  that  his  labors  had 
been  abundantly  blessed.  And  ere  the  completion  of  another 
year,  Samuel  Jones  went  forth  a  licentiate,  to  preach  the 
everlasting  gospel. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  transports  of  that  wid 
owed  heart,  when  she  received  the  joyful  tidings  that  her 
son  had  received  a  unanimous  call  to  take  the  pastoral  charge 


WITCHCRAFT.  167 

of  a  amall  but  well-united  society  in  the   western  part   of 
Ohio,  and  only  waited  for  her  to  accompany  him  thither. 

Speedily  she  prepared  to  leave  a  place  which  she  really 
loved  ;  "  for,"  said  she,  "  have  I  not  been  blessed  with 
health  and  strength  to  perform  a  great  and  noble  work  in 
this  place?" 

Ay,  undoubtedly  thou  hast  performed  a  blessed  work  ; 
and  now,  go  forth,  and  in  the  heart-felt  satisfaction  that  thou 
hast  performed  thy  duty,  reap  the  rich  reward  of  all  thy 
labors. 

Samuel  Jones  and  his  mother  have  departed  for  the  scene 
of  their  future  labors,  with  their  hearts  filled  with  gratitude 
to  God,  and  an  humble  desire  to  be  of  service  in  winning 
many  souls  to  the  flock  of  our  Savior  and  Lord. 

ORIANNA. 


WITCHCRAFT. 


IT  may  not,  perhaps,  be  generally  known  that  a  belief  in 
witchcraft  still  prevails,  to  a  great  extent,  in  some  parts  of 
New  England.  Whether  this  is  owing  to  the  effect  of  early 
impressions  on  the  mind,  or  to  some  defect  in  the  physical 
organization  of  the  human  system,  is  not  for  me  to  say  ;  my 
present  purpose  being  only  to  relate,  in  as  concise  a  manner 
as  may  be,  some  few  things  which  have  transpired  within  a 
quarter  of  a  century  ;  all  of  which  happened  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood  of  my  early  home,  and  among  people  with 
whom  I  was  well  acquainted. 

My  only  apology  for  so  doing  is,  that  I  feel  desirous  to 
transmit  to  posterity,  something  which  may  give  them  an 
idea  of  the  superstition  of  the  present  age — hoping  that  when 
they  look  back  upon  its  dark  page,  they  will  feel  a  spirit  of 
thankfulness  that  they  live  in  more  enlightened  times,  and 
continue  the  work  of  mental  illumination,  till  the  mists  of 
error  entirely  vanish  before  the  light  of  all-conquering  truth. 

In  a  little  glen  between  the  mountains,  in  the  township  of 
B.,  stands  a  cottage,  which,  almost  from  time  immemorial, 
has  been  noted  as  the  residence  of  some  one  of  those  ill-fated 


168  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

beings,  who  are  said  to  take  delight  in  sending  their  spirits 
abroad  to  torment  the  children  of  men.  These  beings,  it  is 
said,  purchase  their  art  of  his  satanic  majesty — the  price, 
their  immortal  souls,  and  when  Satan  calls  for  his  due,  the 
mantle  of  the  wi:ch  is  transferred  to  another  mortal,  who, 
for  the  sake  of  exercising  the  art  for  a  brief  space  of  time, 
makes  over  the  soul  to  perdition. 

The  mother  of  the  present  occupant  of  this  cottage  lived 
to  a  very  advanced  age  ;  and  for  a  long  series  of  years,  all 
the  mishaps  within  many  miles  were  laid  to  her  spiritual 
agency  ;  and  many  were  the  expedients  resorted  to  to  rid 
the  neighborhood  of  so  great  a  pest.  But  the  old  woman, 
spite  of  all  exertions  to  the  contrary,  lived  on,  till  she  died  of 
sheer  old  age. 

It  was  some  little  time  before  it  was  ascertained  who  in 
herited  her  mantle  ;  but  at  length  it  was  believed  to  be  a 
fact  that  her  daughter  Molly  was  duly  authorized  to  exercise 
all  the  prerogatives  of  a  wiich  ;  and  so  firmly  was  this  belief 
established,  that  it  even  gained  credence  with  her  youngest 
brother  ;  and  after  she  was  married,  and  had  removed  to  a 
distant  part  of  the  country,  a  calf  of  his,  that  had  some 
strange  actions,  was  pronounced  by  the  knowing  owes,  to  be 
bewitched  ;  and  this  inhuman  monster  chained  his  calf  in  the 
fire  place  of  his  cooper-shop,  and  burned  it  to  death — hoping 
thereby  to  kill  his  sister,  whose  spirit  was  supposed  to  be  in 
the  body  of  the  calf. 

For  several  years  it  went  current  that  Molly  fell  into  the 
fire,  and  was  burned  to  death,  at  the  same  time  in  which  the 
calf  was  burned.  But  she  at  length  refuted  this,  by  making 
her  brother  a  visit,  and  spending  some  little  time  in  the 
neighborhood. 

Some  nineteen  or  twenty  years  since,  two  men,  with 
whorfi  I  was  well  acquainted,  had  an  action  pending  in  the 
Superior  Court,  and  it  was  supposed  that  the  testimony  of 
the  widow  Goodwin  in  favor  of  the  plaintiff,  would  bear  hard 
upon  the  defendant.  A  short  time  previous  to  the  sitting  of 
the  court,  a  man  by  the  name  of  James  Doe,  offered  himself 
as  an  evidence  for  the  defendant  to  destroy  the  testimony  of 
the  widow  Goodwin,  by  defaming  her  character.  Doe  said 
that  he  was  willing  to  testify  that  the  widow  Goodwin  was 
a  witch — he  knew  it  to  be  a  fact ;  for,  once  on  a  time  she 
came  to  his  bed-side,  and  flung  a  bridle  over  his  head,  and 
he  was  instantly  metamorphosed  into  a  horse.  The  widow 


WITCHCRAFT.  109 

then  mounted  and  rode  him  nearly  forty  miles  ;  she  slopped 
at  a  tavern,  which  he  named,  dismounted,  tied  him  to  the 
sign-post  and  left  him.  After  an  absence  of  several  hours, 
she  returned,  mounted,  and  rode  him  home ;  and  at  the  bed 
side  took  off  the  bridle,  when  he  resumed  his  natural  form. 

No  one  acquainted  with  Doe  thought  that  he  meant  to  de 
viate  from  the  truth.  Those  naturally  superstitious  thought 
that  the  widow  Goodwin  was  in  reality  a  witch  ;  but  the 
more  enlightened  believed  that  their  neighbor  Doe  was  un 
der  the  influence  of  spirituous  liquor  when  he  went  to  bed ; 
and  that  whatever  might  be  the  scene  presented  to  his  im 
agination,  it  was  owing  to  false  vision,  occasioned  by  de 
rangement  in  his  upper  story ;  and  they  really  felt  a  sym 
pathy  for  him,  knowing  that  he  belonged  to  a  family  who 
were  subject  to  mental  aberration. 

A  scene  which  I  witnessed  in  part,  in  the  autumn  of  1822, 
shall  close  my  chapter  on  witchcraft.  It  was  between  the 
hours  of  nine  and  ten  in  the  morning,  that  a  stout-built,  rud 
dy-faced  man  confined  one  of  his  cows,  by  means  of  bows 
and  iron  chains,  to  an  apple-tree  and  then  beat  her  till  she 
dropped  dead — saying  that  the  cow  was  bewitched,  and  that 
he  was  determined  to  kill  the  witch.  His  mother,  and  some 
of  the  neighbors  witnessed  this  cruel  act  without  opposing 
him,  so  infatuated  were  they  with  a  belief  in  witchcraft. 

I  might  enlarge  upon  this  scene,  but  the  recollection  of 
what  then  took  place  recalls  so  many  disagreeable  sensa 
tions,  that  1  forbear.  Let  it  suffice  to  state  that  the  cow 
was  suffering  in  consequence  of  having  eaten  a  large  quan 
tity  of  potatoes  from  a  heap  that  was  exposed  in  the  field 
where  she  was  grazing. 

TABITHA. 


170  MIND    AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 


CLEANING  UP. 


THERE  is  something  to  me  very  interesting  in  observing 
the  manifestations  of  animal  instinct — that  unerring  prompt 
er  which  guides  its  willing  disciple  into  the  ever  straight 
path,  and  shows  him,  with  unfailing  sagacity,  the  easiest  and 
most  correct  method  of  accomplishing  each  necessary  design. 

But  to  enter  here,  upon  a  philosophical  dissertation,  re 
specting  the  nature  and  developments  of  instinct,  is  not  my 
design,  and  I  will  now  detain  you  with  but  one  or  two  instan 
ces  of  it,  which  have  fallen  under  my  own  observation. 

One  warm  day  in  the  early  spring,  I  observed  a  spider, 
very  busily  engaged  upon  a  dirty  old  web,  which  had  for 
along  time,  curtained  a  pane  of  my  factory  window.  Where 
Madame  Arachne  had  kept  herself  during  the  winter,  was 
not  in  my  power  to  ascertain  ;  but  she  was  in  a  very  good 
condition,  plump,  spry,  and  full  of  energy.  The  activity  of 
her  movements  awakened  my  curiosity,  and  I  watched  with 
much  interest  the  commotion  in  the  old  dwelling,  or  rather 
slaughter  house,  for  I  doubted  not  that  many  a  green  head 
and  blue  bottle  had  there  met  an  untimely  end. 

I  soon  found  that  madam  was  very  laboriously  engaged  in 
that  very  necessary  part  of  household  exercises,  called, 
CLEANING  UP  ;  and  she  had  chosen  precisely  the  season  for 
her  labors  which  all  good  housewives  have  by  common 
consent  appropriated  to  paint-cleaning,  white-washing,  &c. 
With  much  labor,  and  a  prodigal  expenditure  of  steps,  she 
removed,  one  by  one,  the  tiny  bits  of  dirt,  sand  &c.,  &c., 
which  had  accumulated  in  this  net  during  the  winter ;  but  it 
was  not  done,  as  I  at  first  thought,  by  pushing  and  poking, 
and  thrusting  the  intruders  out,  but  by  gradually  destroying 
their  location,  as  a  western  emigrant  would  say. — Whether 
this  was  done,  as  I  at  one  time  imagined,  by  devouring  the 
fibre  as  she  passed  over  it,  or  by  winding  it  around  some 
under  part  of  her  body,  or  whether  she  left  it  at  the  centre 
of  the  web,  to  which  point  she  invariably  returned  after 
every  peregrination  to  the  outskirts,  I  could  not  satisfy  my 
self.  It  was  to  me  a  cause  of  great  marvel,  and  awakened 
my  perceptive  as  well  as  reflective  faculties  from  a  long  win 
ter  nap. 


CLEANING    UP.  171 

To  the  first  theory  there  was  no  objection,  excepting  that 
1  had  never  heard  of  its  being  done  ;  but  then  it  might  be  so, 
and  in  this  case  I  had  discovered  what  had  escaped  the  ob 
servation  of  all  preceding  naturalists.  To  the  second  there 
was  this  objection,  that  when  I  occasionally  caught  a  front 
view  of"  my  lady,"  she  showed  no  distaff,  upon  which  slu; 
might  have  re-wound  her  unravelled  thread.  The  third 
suggestion  was  also  objectionable,  because,  though  the  cen 
tre  looked  somewhat  thicker,  or  I  surmised  that  it  did,  yet  it 
was  not  so  much  so  as  it  must  have  been,  had  it  been  the 
depot  of  the  whole  concern. 

Of  one  thing  I  was  at  length  assured — that  there  was  to 
be  an  entire  demolition  of  the  whole  fabric,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  the  main  beams,  (or  sleepers,  I  think  is  the  technical 
term,)  which  remained  as  usual,  when  all  else  had  been  re 
moved.  Then  I  went  away  for  the  night,  and  when  I  re 
turned  the  next  morning,  expecting  to  behold  a  blank — a 
void,  an  evacuation  of  premises — a  removal — a  disappear 
ance — a  destruction  most  complete,  without  even  a  wreck 
left  behind — lo !  there  was  again  the  rebuilt  mansion — the 
restored  fabric,  the  reversed  Penelopian  labor:  and  madam, 
was  rejoicing  like  the  patient  man  of  Uz,  when  more  than 
he  had  lost  was  restored  to  him. 

My  feelings,  (for  I  have  a  large  bump  of  sympathy)  were 
of  that  pleasurable  kind  which  Jack  must  have  experienced, 
when  he  saw  the  castle,  which  in  a  single  night  had  estab 
lished  itself  on  the  top  of  his  bean-pole  ;  or  which  enlivened 
the  bosom  of  Aladdin,  when  he  saw  the  beautiful  palace, 
which  in  a  night  had  travelled  from  the  genii's  dominions 
to  the  waste  field,  which  it  then  beautified  ;  and  I  felt 
truly  rejoiced  that  my  industrious  neighbor's  works  of  dark 
ness  were  not  always  deeds  of  evil.  But  alack  for  the  pooi 
spinster,  when  it  came  my  turn  to  be  cleaning  up ! 


172  MIND  AMONGST  THE  SPINDLES. 


VISITS  TO  THE  SHAKERS. 


A    FIRST    VISIT. 

SOMETIME  in  the  summer  of  18 — ,  I  paid  a  visit  to  one  of 
the  Shaker  villages  in  the  State  of  New  York.  Previously 
to  this,  many  times  and  oft  had  I  (when  tired  of  the  noise 
and  contention  of  the  world,  its  erroneous  opinions,  and  its 
wrong  practices)  longed  for  some  retreat,  where,  with  a  few 
^chosen  friends,  I  could  enjoy  the  present,  forget  the  past, 
and  be  free  from  all  anxiety  respecting  any  future  portion  of 
time.  And  often  had  I  pictured,  in  imagination,  a  state  of 
happy  society,  where  one  common  interest  prevailed — where 
kindness  and  brotherly  love  were  manifested  in  all  of  the 
every-day  affairs  of  life — where  liberty  and  equality  would 
live,  not  in  name,  but  in  very  deed — where  idleness,  in  no 
shape  whatever,  would  be  tolerated — and  where  vice  of  eve 
ry  description  would  be  banished,  and  neatness,  with  order, 
would  be  manifested  in  all  things. 

Actually  to  witness  such  a  state  of  society  was  a  happi 
ness  which  I  never  expected.  I  thought  it  to  be  only  a 
thing  among  the  airy  castles  which  it  has  ever  been  my  de 
light  to  build.  But  with  this  unostentatious  and  truly  kind- 
hearted  people,  the  Shakers,  I  found  it ;  and  the  reality, 
in  beauty  and  harmony,  exceeded  even  the  picturings  of 
imagination. 

No  unprejudiced  mind  could,  for  a  single  moment,  resist 
the  conviction  that  this  singular  people,  with  regard  to  their 
worldly  possessions,  lived  in  strick  conformity  to  the  teach 
ings  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth.  There  were  men  in  this  society 
who  had  added  to  the  common  stock  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  dollars  ;  they  nevertheless  labored,  dressed,  and 
esteemed  themselves  as  no  better,  and  fared  in  all  respects 
like  those  who  had  never  owned,  neither  added  to  the  socie 
ty,  any  worldly  goods  whatever.  The  cheerfulness  with 
which  they  bore  one  another's  burdens  made  even  the 
temporal  calamities,  so  unavoidable  among  the  inhabitants  of 
the  earth,  to  be  felt  but  lightly. 

This  society  numbered  something  like  six  hundred  per 
sons,  who  in  many  respects  were  differently  educated,  and 


VISITS    TO    THE    SHAKERS.  173 

who  were  of  course  in  possession  of  a  variety  of  prejudices, 
and  were  of  contrary  dispositions  and  habits.  Conversing 
with  one  of  their  elders  respecting  them,  he  said,  "  You 
may  say  that  these  were  rude  materials  of  which  to  compose 
a  church,  and  speak  truly  :  but  here  (though  strange  it  may 
seem)  they  are  worked  into  a  building,  with  no  sound  of  axe 
or  hammer.  And  however  discordant  they  were  in  a  state 
of  nature,  the  square  and  the  plumb-line  have  been  applied 
to  them,  and  they  now  admirably  fit  the  places  which  they 
were  designed  to  fill.  Here  the  idle  become  industrious, 
the  prodigal  contracts  habits  of  frugality,  the  parsimonious 
become  generous  and  liberal,  the  intemperate  quit  the  tav 
ern  and  the  grog-shop,  the  debauchee  forsakes  the  haunts  of 
dissipation  and  infamy,  the  swearer  leaves  off  the  habits  of 
profanity,  the  liar  is  changed  into  a  person  of  truth,  the 
thief  becomes  an  honest  man,  and  the  sloven  becomes  neat 
and  clean." 

The  whole  deportment  of  this  truly  singular  people, 
together  with  the  order  and  neatness  which  I  witnessed  in 
their  houses,  shops,  and  gardens,  to  all  of  which  I  had  free 
access  for  the  five  days  which  I  remained  with  them,  to 
gether  with  the  conversations  which  I  held  with  many  of  the 
people  of  both  sexes,  confirmed  the  words  of  the  Elder. — 
Truly,  thought  I,  there  is  not  anotherspot  in  the  wide  earth 
where  I  could  be  so  happy  as  I  could  be  here,  provided  the 
religious  faith  and  devotional  exercises  of  the  Shakers  were 
agreeable  to  my  own  views.  Although  I  could  not  see  the 
utility  of  their  manner  of  worship,  I  felt  not  at  all  disposed 
to  question  that  it  answered  the  end  for  which  spiritual  wor 
ship  wras  designed,  and  as  such  is  accepted  by  our  heavenly 
Father.  That  the  Shakers  have  a  love  for  the  Gospel  ex 
ceeding  that  which  is  exhibited  by  professing  Christians  in 
general,  cannot  be  doubted  by  any  one  who  is  acquainted 
with  them.  For  on  no  other  principle  could  large  families, 
to  the  number  of  fifty  or  sixty,  live  together  like  brethren 
and  sisters.  And  a  number  of  these  families  could  not,  on 
any  other  principles  save  those  of  the  Gospel,  form  a  society, 
and  live  in  peace  and  harmony,  bound  together  by  no  other 
bond  than  that  of  brotherly  love,  and  take  of  each  other's 
property,  from  day  to  day  and  from  year  to  year,  using  it 
indiscriminately,  as  every  one  hath  need,  each  willing  that 
his  brother  should  use  his  property,  as  he  uses  it  himself, 
and  all  this  without  an  equivalent. 
15 


174  MIND   AMONGST   THE   SPINDLES. 

Many  think  that  a  united  interest  in  all  things  temporal  is 
contrary  to  reason.  But  in  what  other  light,  save  that  of 
common  and  united  interest,  could  the  words  of  Christ's 
prophecy  or  promise  be  fulfilled  1  According  to  the  testi 
mony  of  Mark,  Christ  said,  "There  is  no  man  who  hath 
left  house,  or  brethren,  or  sisters,  or  father,  or  mother,  or 
wife,  or  children,  or  lands,  for  my  sake  and  the  Gospel's, 
but  he  shall  receive  an  hundredfold  now  in  this  time,  houses, 
and  brethren,  and  sisters,  and  mothers,  and  children,  and 
lands,  with  persecutions,  and  in  the  world  to  come  eternal 
life."  Not  only  in  fact,  but  in  theory,  is  an  hundredfold  of 
private  interest  out  of  the  question.  For  a  believer  who 
forsook  all  things  could  not  possess  an  hundredfold  of  all 
things  only  on  the  principle  in  which  he  could  possess  all 
that  which  his  brethren  possessed,  while  they  also  possessed 
the  same  in  an  united  capacity. 

In  whatever  light  it  may  appear  to  others,  to  me  it  ap 
pears  beautiful  indeed,  to  see  a  just  and  an  impartial  equali 
ty  reign,  so  that  the  rich  and  the  poor  may  share  an  equal 
privilege,  and  have  all  their  wants  supplied.  That  the 
Shakers  are  in  reality  what  they  profess  to  be,  I  doubt  not. 
Neither  do  I  doubt  that  many,  very  many  lessons  of  wisdom 
might  be  learned  of  them,  by  those  who  profess  to  be  wiser. 
\nd  to  all  who  wish  to  know  if  "  any  good  thing  can  come 
out  of  Nazereth,"  I  would  say,  you  hed  better  "  go  and 


A    SECOND    VISIT. 


I  WAS  so  well  pleased  with  the  appearance  of  the 
Shakers,  and  the  prospect  of  quietness  and  happiness  among 
them  that  I  visited  them  a  second  time.  I  went  with  a  de 
termination  to  ascertain  as  much  as  I  possibly  could  of  then 
forms  and  customs  of  worship,  the  every-day  duties  de- 


UlCOC*ifc    **   WAAV*    «- 

lation  to  several  particulars. 

First  of  all,  justice  will  not  permit  me  to  retract  a  wore 
in  relation  to  the  industry,  neatness,  order,  and  general  goor 
behavior,  in  the  Shaker  settlement  which  I  visited.  Ii 
these  respects,  that  singular  people  are  worthy  of  all  com 


VISITS    TO    THE    SHAKERS.  175 

mendation — yea,  they  set  an  example  for  the  imitation  of 
Christians  everywhere.  Justice  requires  me  to  say,  also, 
that  their  hospitality  is  proverbial,  and  deservedly  so.  They 
received  and  entertained  me  kindly,  and  (hoping  perhaps 
that  I  might  be  induced  to  join  them)  they  extended  extra- 
civilities  to  me.  I  have  occasion  to  modify  the  expression  of 
my  gratitude  in  only  one  particular — and  that  is,  one  of  the 
female  elders  made  statements  to  me  concerning  the  requi 
site  confessions  to  be  made,  and  the  forms  of  admission  to 
their  society,  which  statements  she  afterwards  denied,  under 
circumstances  that  rendered  her  denial  a  most  aggravated 
insult.  Declining  farther  notice  of  this  matter,  because 
of  the  indelicacy  of  the  confessions  alluded  to,  I  pass  to 
notice, 

1st.  The  domestic  arrangements  of  the  Shakers.  How 
ever  strange  the  remark  may  seem,  it  is  nevertheless  true, 
that  our  factory  population  work  fewer  hours  out  of  every 
twenty-four  than  are  required  by  the  Shakers,  whose  bell  to 
call  them  from  their  slumbers,  and  also  to  warn  them  that  it 
is  time  to  commence  the  labors  of  the  day,  rings  much 
earlier  than  our  factory  bells  ;  and  its  calls  were  obeyed,  in 
the  family  where  I  was  entertained,  with  more  punctuality 
than  I  ever  knew  the  greatest  "  workey  "  among  my  numer 
ous  acquaintances  (during  the  fourteen  years  in  which  I 
have  been  employed  in  different  manufacturing  establish 
ments)  to  obey  the  calls  of  the  factory-bell.  And  not 
until  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  were  the  labors  of  the 
day  closed,  and  the  people  assembled  at  their  religious 
meetings. 

Whoever  joins  the  Shakers  with  the  expectation  of  relax 
ation  from  toil,  will  be  greatly  mistaken,  since  they  deem  it 
an  indispensable  duty  to  have  every  moment  of  time  profita 
bly  employed.  The  little  portions  of  leisure  which  the 
females  have,  are  spent  in  knitting — each  one  having  a 
basket  of  knitting-work  for  a  constant  companion. 

Their  habits  of  order  are,  in  many  things,  carried  to  the 
extreme.  The  first  bell  for  their  meals  rings  for  all  to  re 
pair  to  their  chambers,  from  which,  at  the  ringing  of  the 
second  bell,  they  descend  to  the  eating-room.  Here,  all 
take  their  appropriate  places  at  the  tables,  and  after  locking 
their  hands  on  their  breasts,  they  drop  on  their  knees,  close 
their  eyes,  and  remain  in  this  position  about  two  minutes. 
Then  they  rise,  seat  themselves,  and  with  all  expedition 


176  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

swallow  their  food ;  then  rise  on  their  feet,  again  lock  their 
hands,  drop  on  their  knees,  close  their  eyes,  and  in  about 
two  minutes  rise  and  retire.  Their  meals  are  taken  in  si 
lence,  conversation  being  prohibited. 

Those  whose  chambers  are  in  the  fourth  story  of  one 
building,  and  whose  work-shops  are  in  the  third  story  of 
another  building,  have  a  daily  task  in  climbing  stairs  which 
is  more  oppressive  than  any  of  the  rules  of  a  manufacturing 
establishment. 

2d.  With  all  deference,  I  beg  leave  to  introduce  some  of 
the  religious  views  and  ceremonies  of  the  Shakers. 

From  the  conversation  of  the  elders,  I  learned  that  they 
considered  it  doing  God  service  to  sever  tUe  sacred  ties  of 
husband  and  wife,  parent  and  child — the  relationship  exist 
ing  between  them  being  contrary  to  their  religious  views — 
views  which  they  believe  were  revealed  from  heaven  to 
"  Mother  Ann  Lee,"  the  founder  of  their  sect,  and  through 
whom  they  profess  to  have  frequent  revelations  from  the 
spiritual  world.  These  communications,  they  say,  are  often 
written  on  gold  leaves,  and  sent  down  from  heaven  to  in 
struct  the  poor  simple  Shakers  in  some  new  duty.  They 
are  copied,  and  perused,  and  preserved  with  great  care.  I 
one  day  heard  quite  a  number  of  them  read  from  a  book,  in 
which  they  were  recorded,  and  the  names  of  several  of  the 
brethren  and  sisters  to  whom  they  were  given  by  the  angels, 
were  told  me.  One  written  on  a  gold  leaf,  was  (as  I  was 
told)  presented  to  Proctor  Sampson  by  an  angel,  so  late  as 
the  summer  of  1841.  These  "revelations"  are  written 
partly  in  English,  and  partly  in  some  unintelligible  jargon, 
or  unknown  tongue,  having  a  spiritual  meaning,  which  can 
be  understood  only  by  those  who  possess  the  spirit  in  an 
eminent  degree.  They  consist  principally  of  songs,  which 
they  sing  at  their  devotional  meetings,  and  which  are 
accompanied  with  dancing,  and  many  unbecoming  gestures 
and  noises. 

Often  in  the  midst  of  a  religious  march,  all  stop,  and  with 
all  their  might  set  to  stamping  with  both  feet.  And  it  is 
no  uncommon  thing  for  many  of  the  worshipping  assembly 
to  crow  like  a  parcel  of  young  chanticleers,  while  others 
imitate  the  barking  of  dogs  ;  and  many  of  the  young  women 
set  to  whirling  round  and  round — while  the  old  men  shake 
and  clap  their  hands  ;  the  whole  making  a  scene  of  noise 
and  confusion  which  can  be  better  imagined  than  described. 


VISITS    TO    THE    SHAKERS.  177 

The  elders  seriously  told  me  that  these  things  were  the 
outward  manifestations  of  the  spirit  of  Clod. 

Apart  from  their  religious  meetings,  the  Shakers  have 
what  they  call  "union  meetings/'  These  are  for  social 
converse,  and  for  the  purpose  of  making  the  people  ac 
quainted  with  each  other.  During  the  day,  the  elders  tell 
who  may  visit  such  and  such  chambers.  A  few  minutes 
past  nine,  work  is  laid  aside  ;  the  females  change,  or  adjust, 
as  best  suits  their  fancy,  their  caps,  handkerchiefs,  and  pin 
ners,  with  a  precision  which  indicates  that  they  are  not 
altogether  free  from  vanity.  The  chairs,  perhaps  to  the 
number  of  a  dozen,  are  set  in  two  rows,  in  such  a  manner 
that  those  who  occupy  them  may  face  each  other.  At  the 
ringing  of  a  bell  each  one  goes  to  the  chamber  where  either 
he  or  she  has  been  directed  by  the  elders,  or  remains  at 
home  to  receive  company,  as  the  case  may  be.  They  enter 
the  chambers  sans  dremonie,  and  seat  themselves — the  men 
occupying  one  row  of  chairs,  the  women  the  other.  Here, 
with  their  clean  checked  home-made  pocket-handkerchiefs 
spread  in  their  laps,  and  their  spit-boxes  standing  in  a  row 
between  them,  they  converse  about  raising  sheep  and  kine, 
herbs  and  vegetables,  building  walls  and  raising  corn,  heat 
ing  the  oven  and  paring  apples,  killing  rats  and  gathering 
nuts,  spinning  tow  and  weaving  sieves,  making  preserves 
and  mending  the  brethren's  clothes, — in  short,  every  thing 
they  do  will  afford  some  little  conversation.  But  beyond 
their  own  little  world  they  do  not  appear  to  extend  scarcely 
a  thought.  And  why  should  they  ?  Having  so  few  sources 
of  information,  they  know  not  what  is  passing  beyond  them. 
They  however  make  the  most  of  their  own  affairs,  and 
seem  to  regret  that  they  can  converse  no  longer,  when,  after 
sitting  together  from  half  to  three-quarters  of  an  hour, 
the  bell  warns  them  that  it  is  time  to  separate,  which  they 
do  by  rising  up,  locking  their  hands  across  their  breasts, 
and  bowing.  Each  one  then  goes  silently  to  his  own  cham 
ber. 

It  will  readily  be  perceived,  that  they  have  no  access  to 
libraries,  no  books,  excepting  school-books,  and  a  few  re 
lating  to  their  own  particular  views ;  no  periodicals,  and 
attend  no  lectures,  debates.  Lyceums,  &c.  They  have 
none  of  the  many  privileges  of  manufacturing  districts — 
consequently  their  information  is  so  very  limited,  that  their 
conversation  is,  as  a  thing  in  course,  quite  insipid.  The 


178  MIND    AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 

manner  of  their  life  seems  to  be  a  check  to  the  march  of 
mind  and  a  desire  for  improvement ;  and  while  the  moral 
and  perceptive  faculties  are  tolerably  developed,  the  in 
tellectual,  with  a  very  few  exceptions,  seem  to  be  below  the 
average. 

I  have  considered  it  my  duty  to  make  the  foregoing-  state 
ment  of  facts,  lest  the  glowing  description  of  the  Shakers, 
given  in  the  story  of  my  first  visit,  might  have  a  wrong 
influence.  I  then  judged  by  outward  appearances  only — 
having  a  very  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  true  state  of  the 
case.  Nevertheless,  the  facts  as  I  saw  them  in  my  first 
visit,  are  still  facts ;  my  error  is  to  be  sought  only  in  my 
inferences.  Having  since  had  greater  opportunities  for 
observation,  lam  enabled  to  judge  more  righteous  judgment. 

C.  B. 


THE  LOCK  OF  GRAY  HAIR. 

TOUCHING  and  simple  memento  of  departed  worth  and 
affection  !  how  mournfully  sweet  are  the  recollections  thou 
awakenest  in  the  heart,  as  I  gaze  upon  thee — shorn  after 
death  had  stamped  her  loved  features  with  the  changeless  hue 
of  the  graVe.  How  vividly  memory  recalls  the  time  when,  in 
childish  sportiveness  and  affection,  ]  arranged  this  little  tress 
upon  the  venerable  forehead  of  my  grandmother  !  Though 
Time  had  left  his  impress  there,  a  majestic  beauty  yet  rested 
upon  thy  brow  ;  for  age  had  no  power  to  quench  the  light 
of  benevolence  that  beamed  from  thine  eye,  nor  wither  the 
smile  of  goodness  that  animated  thy  features.  Again  do  I 
seem  to  listen  to  the  mild  voice,  whose  accents  had  ever 
power  to  subdue  the  waywardness  of  my  spirit,  and  hush  to 
calmness  the  wild  and  turbulent  passions  of  my  nature. — 
Though  ten  summers  have  made  the  grass  green  upon  thy 
grave,  and  the  white  rose|burst  in  beauty  above  thine  hon 
ored  head,  thy  name  is  yet  green  in  our  memory,  and  thy 
virtues  have  left  a  deathless  fragrance  in  the  hearts  of  thy 
children. 

Though  she  of  whom  I  tell  claimed  not  kindred  with  the 
"  high-born  of  earth  " — though  the  proud  descent  of  titled 


THE    LOCK    OF    GRAY    HAIR.  170 

ancestry  marked  not  her  name — yet  the  purity  of  her  spot 
less  character,  the  practical  usefulness  of  her  life,  her  firm 
adherence  to  duty,  her  high  and  holy  submission  to  the  will 
of  Heaven,  in  every  conflict,  shed  a  radiance  more  resplend 
ent  than  the  glittering  coronet's  hues,  more  enduring  than 
the  wreath  that  encircles  the  head  of  genius.  It  was  no 
lordly  dome  of  other  climes,  nor  yet  of  our  far-off  sunny 
south,  that  called  her  mistress  ;  but  among  the  granite  hills 
of  New  Hampshire  (my  own  father-land)  was  her  humble 
home. 

Well  do  I  remember  the  morning  when  she  related  to  me 
(a  sportive  girl  of  thirteen)  the  events  of  her  early  days. — 
At  her  request,  I  was  her  companion  during  her  accustomed 
morning  walk  about  her  own  homestead.  During  our  ram 
ble,  she  suddenly  stopped,  and  looked  intently  down  upon 
the  green  earth,  leaving  me  in  silent  wonder  at  what  could 
so  strongly  rivet  her  attention.  At  length  she  raised  nor 
eyes,  and  pointing  to  an  ancient  hollow  in  the  earth,  nearly 
concealed  by  rank  herbage,  she  said,  "  that  spot  is  the  dear 
est  to  me  on  earth."  I  looked  around,  then  into  her  face  lor 
an  explanation,  seeing  nothing  unusually  attractive  about 
the  place.  But  ah  !  how  many  cherished  memories  came 
up  at  that  moment  !  The  tear  of  fond  recollection  stood  in 
her  eye  as  she  spoke  : — "  On  this  spot  I  passed  the  brightest 
hours  of  my  existence."  To  my  eager  inquiry,  Did  you 
not  always  live  in  the  large  white  house  yonder  ?  She  re 
plied,  "  No,  my  child.  Fifty  years  ago,  upon  this  spot 
stood  a  rude  dwelling,  composed  of  logs.  Here  I  pass  ;d 
the  early  days  of  my  marriage,  and  here  my  noble  first-born 
drew  his  first  breath."  In  answer  to  my  earnest  entreaty 
to  tell  me  all  about  it,  she  seated  herself  upon  the  lar^e 
broad  stone  which  had  been  her  ancient  hearth,  and  com 
menced  her  story. 

"  It  was  a  bright  midsummer  eve  when  your  grandfather, 
whom  you  never  saw,  brought  me  here,  his  chosen  and 
happy  bride.  On  that  morning  had  we  plighted  our  faith  at 
the  altar — that  morning,  with  all  the  feelings  natural  to  a 
girl  of  eighteen,  I  bade  adieu  to  the  home  of  my  childhood, 
ami  with  a  fond  mother's  last  kiss  yet  warm  upon  my  cheek, 
commenced  my  journey  with  my  husband  towards  his  new 
home  in  the  wilderness.  Slowly  on  horseback  we  proceed 
ed  on  our  way,  through  the  green  forest  path,  whose  deep 
winding  course  was  directed  by  incisions  upon  the  trees  left 


180  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

by  the  axe  of  the  sturdy  woodsman.  Yet  no  modern  bride, 
in  her  splendid  coach,  decked  in  satin,  orange-flowers,  and 
lace — on  the  way  to  her  stately  city  mansion,  ever  felt  her 
heart  beat  higher  than  did  my  own  on  that  day.  For  as  I 
looked  upon  the  manly  form  of  him  beside  me,  as  with 
careful  hand  he  guided  my  bridal  rein — or  met  the  fond 
glance  of  his  full  dark  eye,  I  felt  that  his  was  a  changeless 
love. 

"Thus  we  pursued  our  lonely  way  through  the  lengthening 
forest,  where  Nature  reigned  almost  in  her  primitive  wild- 
ness  and  beauty.  Now  and  then  a  cultivated  patch,  with  a 
newly-erected  cottage,  where  sat  the  young  mother,  hushing 
with  her  low  wild  song  the  babe  upon  her  bosom,  with  the 
crash  of  the  distant  falling  trees,  proclaimed  it  the  home  of 
the  emigrant. 

"  Twilight  had  thrown  her  soft  shade  over  the  earth  :  the 
bending  foliage  assumed  a  deeper  hue ;  the  wild  wood  bird 
singing  her  last  note,  as  we  emerged  from  the  forest  to  a 
spot  termed  by  the  early  settlers  '  a  clearing.'  It  was  an 
enclosure  of  a  few  acres,  where  the  preceding  year  had 
stood  in  its  pride  the  stately  forest-tree.  In  the  centre,  sur 
rounded  by  tall  stalks  of  Indian  corn,  waving  their  silken 
tassels  in  the  night-breeze,  stood  the  lowly  cot  which  was  to 
be  my  future  home..  Beneath  yon  aged  oak,  which  has  been 
spared  to  tell  of  the  past,  we  dismounted  from  our  horses, 
and  entered  our  rude  dwelling.  All  was  silent  within  and 
without,  save  the  low  whisper  of  the  wind  as  it  swept 
through  the  forest.  But  blessed  with  youth,  health,  love, 
and  hope,  what  had  we  to  fear?  Not  that  the  privations 
and  hardships  incident  to  the  early  emigrant  were  unknown 
to  us — but  we  heeded  them  not. 

"  The  early  dawn  and  dewy  eve  saw  us  unremitting  in 
our  toil,  and  Heaven  crowned  our  labors  with  blessings. 
'  The  wilderness  began  to  blossom  as  the  rose,'  and  our 
barns  were  filled  with  plenty. 

"  But  there  was  coming  a  time  big  with  the  fate  of  these 
then  infant  colonies.  The  murmur  of  discontent,  long  since 
heard  in  our  large  commercial  ports,  grew  longer  and  loud 
er,  beneath  repeated  acts  of  British  oppression.  We  knew 
the  portentous  cloud  every  day  grew  darker.  In  those 
days  our  means  of  intelligence  were  limitod  to  the  casual 
visitation  of  some  traveller  from  abroad  to  our  wilderness. 

"  But  uncertain   and  doubtful   as   was  its  nature,  it  was 


THE    LOCK    OF    GRAY    HAIR.  181 

enongh  to  rouse  the  spirit  of  patriotism  in  many  a  manly 
heart ;  and  while  the  note  of  preparation  loudly  rang  in 
the  bustling  thoroughfares,  its  tones  were  not  unheard 
among  these  granite  rocks.  The  trusty  firelock  was  re 
mounted,  and  hung  in  polished  readiness  over  each  humble 
door.  The  shining  pewter  was  transformed  to  the  heavy 
bullet,  awaiting  the  first  signal  to  carry  death  to  the  op 
pressor. 

"  It  was  on  the  memorable  17th  of  June,  1775,  that  your 
grandfather  was  at  his  usual  labor  in  a  distant  part  of  his 
farm :  suddenly  there  fell  upon  his  ear  a  sound  heavier  than 
the  crash  of  the  falling  tree  :  echo  answered  echo  along 
these  hills  ;  he  knew  the  hour  had  come — that  the  flame  had 
burst  forth  which  blood  alone  could  extinguish.  His  was 
not  a  spirit  to  slumber  within  sound  of  that  battle-peal.  He 
dropped  his  implements,  and  returned  to  his  house.  Never 
shall  I  forget  the  expression  of  his  face  as  he  entered. — 
There  was  a  wild  fire  in  his  eye — his  cheek  was  flushed — the 
veins  upon  his  broad  forehead  swelled  nigh  to  bursting  He 
looked  at  me — then  at  his  infant- boy — and  for  a  moment  his 
face  was  convulsed.  But  soon  the  calm  expression  of  high 
resolve  shone  upon  his  features. 

"  Then  I  felt  that  what  I  had  long. secretly  dreaded  was 
about  to  be  realized.  For  awhile  the  woman  struggled  fear 
fully  within  me — but  the  strife  was  brief;  and  though  I 
could  not  with  my  lips  say  *  go,'  in  my  heart  I  responded, 
'  God's  will  be  done  ' — for  as  such  I  could  but  regard  the 
sacred  cause  in  which  all  for  which  we  lived  was  staked.  I 
dwell  not  on  the  anguished  parting,  nor  on  the  lonely  deso 
lation  of  heart  which  followed.  A  few  hasty  arrangements, 
and  he,  in  that  stern  band  known  as  the  Green  Mountain 
Boys,  led  by  the  noble  Stark,  hurried  to  the  post  of  danger. 
On  the  plains  of  Bennington  he  nobly  distinguished  himself 
in  that  fierce  conflict  with  the  haughty  Briton  and  mercenary 
foe. 

"  Long  and  dreary  was  the  period  of  my  husband's  ab 
sence  ;  but  the  God  of  my  fathers  forsook  me  not.  To  Him 
I  committed  my  absent  one,  in  the  confidence  that  He  would 
do  all  things  well.  Now  and  then,  a  hurried  scrawl, 
written  perhaps  on  the  eve  of  an  expected  battle,  came  to 
me  in  my  lonely  solitude  like  the  *  dove  of  peace  '  and  con 
solation — for  it  spoke  of  undying  affection  and  unshaken 
faith  in  the  ultimate  success  of  that  cause  for  which  he  had 
left  all. 


182  MIND    AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 

"  But  he  did  return.  Once  more  he  was  with  me.  I  saw 
him  press  his  first-born  to  his  bosom,  and  receive  the  little 
dark-eyed  one,  whom  he  had  never  yet  seen,  with  new 
fondness  to  his  paternal  arms.  He  lived  to  witness  the  glo 
rious  termination  of  that  struggle,  the  events  of  which  all  so 
well  know  ;  to  see  the  '  stars  and  stripes  '  waving  triumph 
antly  in  the  breeze,  and  to  enjoy  for  a  brief  season  the  rich 
blessings  of  peace  and  independence.  But  ere  the  sere  and 
yellow  leaf  of  age  was  upon  his  brow,  the  withering  hand 
of  disease  laid  his  noble  head  in  the  dust.  As  the  going 
down  of  the  sun,  which  foretells  a  glorious  rising,  so  was  his 
death.  Many  years  have  gone  by,  since  he  was  laid  in  his 
quiet  resting-place,  where,  in  a  few  brief  days,  I  shall  slum 
ber  sweetly  by  his  side." 

Such  was  her  unvarnished  story  ;  and  such  is  substan 
tially  the  story  of  many  an  ancient  mother  of  New  England. 
Yet  while  the  pen  of  history  tells  of  the  noble  deeds  of  the 
patriot  fathers,  it  records  little  of  the  days  of  privation  and 
toil  of  the  patriot  mothers — of  their  nights  of  harassing 
anxiety  and  uncomplaining  sorrow.  But  their  virtues  re 
main  written  upon  the  hearts  of  their  daughters,  in  charac 
ters  that  perish  not.  Let  not  the  rude  hand  of  degeneracy 
desecrate  the  hallowed  shrine  of  their  memory. 

THERESA. 


LAMENT    OF    THE    LITTLE    HUNCHBACK.  183 


LAMENT  OF  THE  LITTLE  HUNCHBACK. 

OH,  ladies,  will  you  listen  to  a  little  orphan's  tale  ? 
And  pity  her  whose  youthful  voice  must  breathe  so  sad  a  wail ; 
And  shrink  not  from  the  wretched  form  obtruding  on  your  view. 
As  though  the  heart  which  in  it  dwells  must  be  as  loathsome  too. 

Full  well  I  know  that  mine  would  be  a  strange  repulsive  mind, 
Were  the  outward  form  an  index  true  of  the  soul  within  it  shrined ; 
But  though  I  am  so  all  devoid  of  the  loveliness  of  youth, 
Yet  deem  me  not  as  destitute  of  its  innocence  and  truth. 

And  ever  in  this  hideous  frame  I  strive  to  keep  the  light 
Of  faith  in  God,  and  love  to  man,  still  shining  pure  and  bright ; 
Though  hard  the  task,  I  often  find,  to  keep  the  channel  free 
Whence  all  the  kind  affections  flow  to  those  who  love  not  me. 

I  sometimes  take  a  little  child  quite  softly  on  my  knee, 

I  hush  it  with  my  gentlest  tones,  and  kiss  it  tenderly  j 

But  my  kindest  words  will  not  avail,  my  form  cannot  be  screened, 

And  the  babe  recoils  from  my  embrace,  as  though  I  were  a  fiend. 

I  sometimes,  in  my  walks  of  toil,  meet  children  at  their  play  5 
For  a  moment  will  my  pulses  fly,  and  I  join  the  band  so  gay  j 
But  they  depart  with  hasty  steps,  while  their  lips  and  nostrils  curl, 
Nor  e'en  their  childhood's  sports  will  share  with  the  little  crooked  girl 

But  once  it  was  not  thus  with  me  :  I  was  a  dear-loved  child ; 
A  mother's  kiss  oft  pressed  my  brow,  a  father  on  me  smiled  ; 
No  word  was  ever  o'er  me  breathed,  but  in  affection's  tone, 
For  I  to  them  was  very  near — their  cherish'd,  only  one. 

But  sad  the  change  which  me  befel,  when  they  were  laid  to  sleep, 
Where  the  earth-worms   o'er  their  mouldering  forms  their  noisome 

revels  keep ; 

For  of  the  orphan's  hapless  fate  there  were  few  or  none  to  care, 
And  burdens  on  my  back  were  laid  a  child  should  never  bear. 

And  now,  in  this  offensive  form,  their  cruelty  is  viewed — 
For  first  upon  me  came  disease — and  deformity  ensued  : 
Woe  !  woe  to  her,  for  whom  not  even  this  life's  earliest  stage 
Could  be  redeemed  from  the  bended  form  and  decrepitude  of  age. 

And  yet  of  purest  happiness  I  have  some  transient  gleams ; 
'Tis  when,  upon  my  pallet  rude,  I  lose  myself  in  dreams  : 
The  gloomy  present  fades  away  ;  the  sad  past  seems  forgot  ; 
And  in  those  visions  of  the  night  mine  is  a  blissful  lot. 


184  MIND  AMONGST  THE  SPINDLES. 


The  dead  then  come  and  visit  me  :  F  hear  my  father's  voice  5 
1  hear  that  gentle  mother's  tones,  which  makes  my  heart  rejoice  ; 
Her  hand  once  more  is  softly  placed  upon  my  aching  brow, 
And  she  soothes  my  every  pain  away,  as  if  an  infant  now. 

But  sad  is  it  to  wake  again,  to  loneliness  and  fears  ; 

To  find  myself  the  creature  yet  of  misery  and  tears  ; 

And  then,  once  more,  1  try  to  sleep,  and  know  the  thrilling  bliss 

To  see  again  my  father's  smile,  and  feel  my  mother's  kiss. 

And  sometimes,  then,  a  blessed  boon  has  unto  me  been  given — 
An  entrance  to  the  spirit- world,  a  foretaste  here  of  heaven  ; 
I  have  heard  the  joyous  anthems  swell,  from  voice  and  golden  lyre, 
And  seen  the  dearly  loved  of  earth  join  in  that  gladsome  choir. 

And  I  have  dropped  this  earthly  frame,  this  frail  disgusting  clay, 
And,  in  a  beauteous  spirit-form,  have  soared  on  wings  away ; 
I  have  bathed  my  angel-pinions  in  the  floods  of  glory  bright, 
Which  circle,  with  their  brilliant  waves,  the  throne  of  living  light. 

I  have  joined  the  swelling  chorus  of  the  holy  glittering  bands 
Who  ever  stand  around  that  throne,  Avith  cymbals  in  their  hands  : 
But  the  dream  would  soon  be  broken  by  the  voices  of  the  morn, 
And  the  sunbeams  send  me  forth  again,  the  theme  of  jest  and  song. 

I  care  not  for  their  mockery  now — the  thought  disturbs  me  not, 
That,  in  this  little  span  of  life,  contempt  should  be  my  lot  j 
But  I  would  gladly  welcome  here  some  slight  reprieve  from  pain, 
And  I'd  murmur  of  my  back  no  more,  if  it  might  not  ache  again. 

Full  well  I  know  this  ne'er  can  be,  till  I  with  peace  am  blest, 
Where  the  heavy-laden  sweetly  sleep,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest; 
For  the  body  shall  commingle  with  its  kindred  native  dust, 
And  the  soul  return  for  evermore  to  the  "  Holy  One  and  Just." 

LETTY. 


THIS    WOULD    IS    NOT    OUR    HOME.  185 


THIS  WORLD  IS  NOT  OUR  HOME. 

How  difficult  it  is  for  the  wealthy  and  proud  to  realize  that 
they  must  die,  and  mingle  with  the  common  earth  !  Though 
a  towering  monument  may  mark  the  spot  where  their  lifeless 
remains  repose,  their  heads  will  lie  as  low  as  that  of  the 
poorest  peasant.  All  their  untold  gold  cannot  reprieve  them 
tor  one  short  day. 

When  Death  places  his  relentless  hand  upon  them,  and  as 
their  spirit  is  fast  passing  away,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  the 
truth  Hashes  upon  their  mind,  that  this  world  is  not  their 
home  ;  and  a  thrill  of  agony  racks  their  frame  at  the  thought 
of  entering  that  land  where  all  is  uncertainty  to  them.  It 
may  be  that  they  have  never  humbled  themselves  before  the 
great  Lawgiver  and  Judge,  and  their  hearts,  alas  !  have  not 
been  purified  and  renewed  by  that  grace  for  which  they  never 
supplicated.  And  as  the  vacant  eye  wanders  around  the 
splendidly  furnished  apartment,  with  its  gorgeous  hangings 
and  couch  of  down,  how  worthless  it  all  seems,  compared 
with  that  peace  of  mind  which  attends  "  the  pure  in  heart !  " 

The  aspirant  after  fame  would  fain  believe  this  world  was 
his  home,  as  day  by  day  he  twines  the  laurel-wreath  for  his 
brow,  and  fondly  trusts  it  will  be  unfading  in  its  verdure  ; 
and  as  the  applause  of  a  world,  that  to  him  appears  all  bright 
and  beautiful,  meets  his  ear,  he  thinks  not  of  Him  who  re 
signed  his  life  on  the  cross  for  suffering  humanity — he  thinks 
of  naught  but  the  bubble  he  is  seeking  ;  and  when  he  has 
obtained  it,  it  has  lost  all  its  brilliancy — for  the  world  has 
learned  to  look  with  indifference  upon  the  bright  flowers  he 
has  scattered  so  profusely  on  all  sides,  and  his  friends,  one 
by  one,  become  alienated  and  cold,  or  bestow  their  praise 
upon  some  new  candidate  who  may  have  entered  the  arena 
of  fame.  How  his  heart  shrinks  within  him,  to  think  of  the 
long  hours  of  toil  by  the  midnight  lamp — of  health  destroyed 
— of  youth  departed — of  near  and  dear  ties  broken  by  a  light 
careless  word,  that  had  no  meaning  !  How  bitterly  does  he 
regret  that  he  has  thrown  away  all  the  warm  and  better  feel 
ings  of  his  heart  upon  the  fading  things  of  earth  !  How 
deeply  does  he  feel  that  he  has  slighted  God's  holy  law — for, 
in  striving  after  worldly  honors,  he  had  forgotten  that  this 


186  MIND   AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 

world  was  not  his  home  ;  and  while  the  rainbow  tints  of  pros 
perity  gleamed  in  his  pathway,  he  had  neglected  to  cultivate 
the  fadeless  wreath  that  cheers  the  dying  hour !  And  now 
the  low  hollow  cough  warns  him  of  the  near  approach  of 
that  hour  beyond  which  all  to  him  is  darkness  and  gloom  ; 
and  as  he  tosses  on  the  bed  of  pain  and  languishing,  lament 
ing  that  all  the  bright  visions  of  youth  had  so  soon  vanished 
away,  the  cold  world  perchance  passes  in  review  before  him. 

He  beholds  the  flushed  cheek  of  beauty  fade,  and  the  star 
of  fame  fall  from  the  brow  of  youth.  He  marks  the  young 
warrior  on  the  field  of  battle,  fighting  bravely,  while  the 
banner  of  stars  and  stripes  waves  proudly  over  his  head  ;  and 
while  thinking  of  the  glory  he  shall  win,  a  ball  enters  his 
heart. — He  gazes  upon  an  aged  sire,  as  he  bends  over  the 
lifeless  form  of  his  idolized  child,  young  and  fair  as  the 
morning,  just  touched  by  the  hand  of  death  ;  she  was  the 
light  of  his  home,  the  last  of  many  dear  ones  ;  and  he  won 
dered  why  he  was  spared,  and  the  young  taken.  Though 
the  cup  was  bitter,  he  drank  it. 

Again  he  turned  his  eyes  from  the  world,  whereon  every 
thing  is  written, "fading  away."  Yes,  wealth,  beauty, fame, 
glory,  honor,  friendship,  and  oh  !  must  it  be  said  that  even 
love,  too,  fades?  Almost  in  despair,  he  exclaimed,  "  Is  there 
aught  that  fades  not?  "  And  a  voice  seemed  to  whisper  in 
his  ear,  "  There  is  God's  love  which  never  fades ;  this  world 
is  not  your  home ;  waste  not  the  short  fragment  of  your  life 
in  vain  regrets,  but  rather  prepare  for  that  dissolution  which 
is  the  common  lot  of  all ;  be  ready,  therefore,  to  pass  to 
that  bourne  from  which  there  is  no  return,  before  you  enter 
the  presence  of  Him  whose  name  is  Love." 

"  Then  ask  not  life,  but  joy  to  know 

That  sinless  they  in  heaven  shall  stand  j 
That  Death  is  not  a  cruel  foe, 

To  execute  a  wise  command. 
'Tis  ours  to  ask,  'tis  God's  to  give. — 
We  live  to  die — and  die  to  live." 

BEATRICE. 


DIGNITY    OF   LABOR.  187 


DIGNITY  OF  LABOR. 

FROM  whence  originated  the  idea,  that  it  was  derogatory 
to  a  lady's  dignity,  or  a  blot  upon  the  female  character,  to 
labor  ?  and  who  was  the  first  to  say  sneeringly , "  Oh,  she  works 
for  a  living?  "  Surely,  such  ideas  and  expressions  ought  not 
to  grow  on  republican  soil.  The  time  has  been  when  ladies 
of  the  first  rank  were  accustomed  to  busy  themselves  in  do 
mestic  employment. 

Homer  tells  us  of  princesses  who  used  to  draw  water  from 
the  springs,  and  wash  with  their  own  hands  the  finest  of  the 
linen  of  their  respective  families.  The  famous  Lucretia  used 
to  spin  in  the  midst  of  her  attendants  ;  and  the  wife  of  Ulysses, 
after  the  siege  of  Troy,  employed  herself  in  weaving,  until 
her  husband  returned  to  Ithaca.  And  in  later  times,  the  wife 
of  George  the  Third,  of  England,  has  been  represented  as 
spending  a  whole  evening  in  hemming  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
while  her  daughter  Mary  sat  in  the  corner,  darning  stock 
ings. 

Few  American  fortunes  will  support  a  woman  who  is  above 
the  calls  of  her  family  ;  and  a  man  of  sense,  in  choosing  a 
companion  to  jog  with  him  through  all  the  up-hills  and 
down-hills  of  life,  would  sooner  choose  one  who  had  to  work 
for  a  living,  than  one  who  thought  it  beneath  her  to  soil  her 
pretty  hands  with  manual  labor,  although  she  possessed  her 
thousands.  To  be  able  to  earn  one's  own  living  by  laboring 
with  the  hands,  should  be  reckoned  among  female  accom 
plishments  ;  and  I  hope  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when  none 
of  ray  countrywomen  will  be  ashamed  to  have  it  known  that 
they  are  better  versed  in  useful  than  they  are  in  ornamental 
accomplishments. 

C.  B. 


188  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

THE  VILLAGE  CHRONICLE. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  COME,  Lina,  dear,"  said  Mr.  Wheeler  to  his  little  daugh 
ter,  "lay  by  your  knitting,  if  you  please,  and  read  me  the 
paper." 

"  What,  pa,  this  old  paper,  '  The  Village  Chronicle  ?  '  : 

"  Old,  Lina ! — why,  it  is  damp  from  the  press.  Not  so  old, 
by  more  than  a  dozen  years,  as  you  are." 

"  But,  pa,  the  news  is  olds.  Our  village  mysteries  are  all 
worn  threadbare  by  the  gossiping  old  maids  before  the 
printer  can  get  them  in  type  ;  and  the  foreign  information  is 
more  quickly  obtained  from  other  sources.  And,  pa,  I  wish 
you  would  n't  call  me  Lina — it  sounds  so  childish,  and  I  be 
gin  to  think  myself  quite  a  young  lady — almost  in  my  teens, 
you  know  ;  and  Angeline  is  not  so  vtry  long." 

"  Well,  Angeline,  as  you  please  ;  but  see  if  there  is  not 
something  in  the  paper." 

"  Oh,  yes,  pa;  to  please  you  I  will  read  the  stupid  old 
(new,  I  mean)  concern. — Well,  in  the  first  place,  we  have 
some  poetry — some  of  our  village  poets'  (genius,  you  know, 
admits  not  of  distinction  of  sex)  effusions,  or  rather  confu 
sions.  Miss  Helena  (it  used  to  be  Ellen  once)  Carrol's  sub 
lime  sentiments  upon  '  The  Belvidere  Apollo,' — which  she 
never  saw,  nor  anything  like  it,  and  knows  nothing  about. 
She  had  better  write  about  our  penny-post,  and  then  we  might 
feel  an  interest  in  her  lucubrations,  even  if  not  very  in 
trinsically  valuable.  But  if  she  does  not  want  to  be  an  old 
maid,  she  might  as  well  leave  off  writing  sentimental  poetry 
for  the  newspapers  ;  for  who  will  marry  a  bleu?  " 

"  There  is  much  that  I  might  say  in  reply,  but  I  will  wait 
until  you  are  older.  And  now  do  not  let  me  hear  you  say 
anything  more  about  old  maids,  at  least  deridingly  ;  for  I 
have  strong  hopes  that  my  little  girl  will  be  one  herself." 

"  No,  pa,  never  ! — I  will  not  marry,  at  least  while  you,  or 
Alfred,  or  Jimmy,  are  alive  ;  but  I  cannot  be  an  old  maid — 
not  one  of  those  tattling,  envious,  starched-up,  prudish 
creatures,  whom  I  have  always  designated  as  old  maids, 
whether  they  are  married  or  single — on  the  sunny  or  shady 
side  of  thirty." 


THE    VILLAGE    CHRONICLE.  189 

"  Well,  child,  I  hope  you  never  will  be  metamorphosed 
into  an  old  maid,  then.  But  now  for  the  Chronicle — I  will 
excuse  you  from  the  poetry,  if  you  will  read  what  comes 
next." 

'•  Thank  you,  my  dear  father,  a  thousand  times.  It  would 
have  made  me  as  sick  as  a  cup-full  of  warm  water  would  do. 
You  know  I  had  rather  take  so  much  hot  drops. — But  the 
next  article  is  Miss  Simpkins's  very  original  tale,  entitled 
'  The  Injured  One,' — probably  all  about  love  and  despair,  and 
ladies  so  fair,  and  men  who  do  n't  care,  if  the  mask  they  can 
wear,  and  the  girls  must  beware.  Now  ain't  I  literary  ?  But 
to  be  a  heroine  also,  I  will  muster  my  resolution,  and  com 
mence  the  story : 

"  *  Madeline  and  Emerilla  were  the  only  daughters  of  Mr. 
Beaufort,  of  H.,  New  Hampshire.' 

"  Now,  pa,  I  can't  go  any  farther — I  would  as  lieve  travel 
through  the  deserts  of  Sahara,  or  run  the  gauntlet  among  the 
Seminoles,  as  to  wade  through  this  sloshy  story.  Miss  Simp- 
kins  always  has  such  names  to  her  heroines ;  and  they  would 
do  very  well  if  they  were  placed  anywhere  but  in  the  unro- 
mantic  towns  of  our  granite  State.  H.,  I  suppose,  stands 
for  Hawke,  or  Hopkinton.  Miss  Simpkins  is  so  soft  that  I 
do  not  believe  Mr.  Baxter  would  publish  her  stories,  if  he  were 
not  engaged  to  her  sister.  She  makes  me  think  of  old  '  deaf 
uncle  Jeff,'  in  the  story,  who  wanted  somebody  to  love." 

"  And  she  does  love — she  loves  everybody  ;  and  I  am  sorry 
to  hear  you  talk  so  of  this  amiable  and  intellectual  girl.  But 
I  do  not  wish  to  hear  you  read  her  story  now — as  for  her 
names,  she  would  not  find  one  unappropriated  by  our  towns- 
folks.  What  comes  next  ?" 

"  The  editorial,  pa,  and  the  caption  is,  '  Our  Representa 
tives.'  I  had  ten  times  rather  read  about  the  antediluvians, 
and  1  wish  sometimes  they  might  go  and  keep  them  company. 
And  now  for  the  items  :  Our  new  bell  got  cracked,  in  its 
winding  way  to  this  'ere  town  ;  and  the  meeting-house  at  the 
West  Parish,  has  been  fired  by  an  incendiary  ;  and  the  old 
elm,  near  the  Central  House,  has  been  blown  down ;  and 
Widow  Frye  has  had  a  yoke  of  oxen  struck  by  lightning  ; 
and  old  Col.  Morton  fell  down  dead,  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy  ; 
and  the  bridge  over  the  Branch  needs  repairing  ;  and  *  a  friend 
of  good  order  '  wishes  that  our  young  men  would  not  stand 
gaping  around  the  meeting-house  doors,  before  or  after  ser 
vice  ;  and  'a  friend  of  equal  rights  '  wishes  that  people  might 
16 


190  MIND    AMONGST   THE   SPINDLES. 

sell  and  drink  as  much  rum  as  they  please,  without  interfer 
ence,  &c.,  &c.;  and  all  these  things  we  knew  before,  as  well  as 
we  did  our  A  B  C's.  Next  are  the  cards  :  The  ladies  have 
voted  their  thanks  to  Mr.  K.,  for  his  lecture  upon  phrenology 
the  matrimonial  part,  I  presume,  included  ;  and  the  Anti- 
Slavery  Society  is  to  have  a  fair,  at  which  will  be  sold  all 
sorts  of  abolition  things,  such  as  anti-slavery  paper,  wafers, 
and  all  such  important  articles.  I  declare  I  will  make  a 
nigger  doll  for  it.  And  Mr.  P.,  of  Boston,  is  to  deliver  a 
lecture  upon  temperance  ;  and  the  trustees  of  the  Academy 
have  chosen  Mr.  Dalton  for  the  Preceptor,  and  here  is  his 
long  advertisement ;  and  the  Overseers  oft  he  Poor  are  ready 
to  receive  proposals  for  a  new  alms-house  ;  and  all  these 
things,  pa,  which  have  been  the  town  talk  this  long  time . 
But  here  is  something  new.  Our  minister,  dear  Mr.  Olden, 
has  been  very  seriously  injured  by  an  accident  upon  the  Bos 
ton  and  Salem  Railroad,  The  news  must  be  very  recent,  for 
we  had  not  heard  of  it ;  and  it  is  crowded  into  very  fine  type. 
Oh,  how  sorry  I  am  for  him  !  " 

"Well,  Lina,  or  Miss  Angeline,  there  is  something  of 
sufficient  importance  to  repay  you  for  the  trouble  of  reading 
it,  and  I  am  very  glad  that  you  have  done  so— for  I  will  start 
upon  my  intended  journey  to  Boston  to-day,  and  can  assist 
him  to  return  home.  Anything  else  ?  ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,  pa  !  a  long  list  of  those  who  have  taken  advan- 
tacre  of 'the  Bankrupt  Act,  and  the  Deaths  and  Marriages  ; 
but  all  mentioned  here,  with  whose  names  we  were  familiar, 
have  been  subjects  for  table-talk  these  several  days." 

"  Well,  is  there  no  foreign  news?  " 

"  Yes,  pa  ;  Queen  Victoria  has  given  another  ball  at  Buck- 
in  o-ham  Palace  ;  and  Prince  Albert  has  accepted  a  very  fine 
blood-hound,  from  Major  Sharp,  of  Houston  ;  and  Sir  How 
ard  Douglas  has  been  made  a  Civil  Grand  Cross  of  the  Bath, 
&c.,  &c.  Are  not  these  fine  things  to  fill  up  our  republican 
papers  with  ?  " 

"Well,  my  daughter,  look  at  the  doings  in  Congress— 
that  will  suit  you." 

"  You  know  better,  pa.  They  do  nothing  there  but  scold, 
and  strike,  and  grumble — then  pocket  their  money,  and  go 
home.  See,  here  it  begins  ,  '  The  proceedings  of  the  House 
can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been  important.  An  instructive 
and  delightful  scene  took  place  between  Mr.  Wise  of  Virginia, 
and  Mr  Stanly,  of  South  Carolina.'  Yes,  pa,  that's  the  way 


THE    VILLAGE    CHRONICLE.  191 

they  spend  their  time.  In  this  act  of  the  farce,  or  tragedy, 
one  called  t'  other  a  bull-dog,  t'  other  called  one  a  coward. 
Do  you  wish  to  hear  any  more?  " 

44  You  are  somewhat  out  of  humor,  my  child ;  but  are 
there  no  new  notices  ?  " 

««  Yes,  here  is  an  '  Assessors'  Notice,'  and  an  '  Assignee's 
Notice,'  and  a  '  Contractors'  Notice  ;'  but  you  do  not  care 
anything  about  them.  And  here  is  an  '  Auction  Notice.' ' 

"  What  auction  ?     Read  it,  my  love." 

"  Why,  the  late  old  Mr.  Gardner's  farm-house,  and  all 
his  furniture,  are  to  be  sold  at  auction.  And  here  is  a  notice 
of  a  meeting  of  the  Directors  of  the  Pentucket  Bank,  to  be 
held  this  very  afternoon." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  have  learned  of  it,  for  I  must  be  there. 
Is  that  all?  " 

"  AlH— no,  indeed  !  Here  are  some  long  articles,  full  of 
Whereases,  and  Resolved's,  and  Be  it  enacted' s  ;  but  I  know 
you  will  excuse  me  from  reading  them.  And  now  for  the 
advertisements:  Here  is  a  fine  new  lot  of  Chenie-de-Laines, 
'just  received  '  at  Grosvenor's — oh,  pa!  do  let  me  have  a 
new  dress,  won't  you?  " 

"  No,  1  can't — at  least,  I  do  not  see  how  I  can.  But  if 
you  will  promise  to  read  my  paper  through  patiently  for  the 
future,  and  will  prepare  my  valise  for  my  journey  to  Boston, 
I  will  see  what  I  may  do.  Meantime  I  must  be  off  to  the 
directors'  meeting.  And  now  let  me  remind  you  that  two 
items,  at  least,  in  this  paper,  have  been  of  much  importance 
to  me  ;  and  one,  it  seems,  somewhat  interesting  to  you.  So 
no  more  fretting  about  the  Chronicle,  if  you  want  a  new 
gown.'1 

Mr.  Wheeler  left  the  room,  and  Angeline  seated  herself 
at  the  work-table,  to  repair  his  vest.  She  was  sorry  she  had 
fretted  so  much  about  the  Chronicle ;  but  she  did  wish  her 
father  would  take  the  "  Ladies'  Companion,"  or  something 
else,  in  its  stead. 

While  seated  there,  her  little  brother  came  running  into 
the  room,  all  out  of  breath,  and  but  just  able  to  gasp  out, 
"  Oh,  Lina  !  there  is  a  man  at  the  Central  House,  who  has 
just  stopped  in  the  stage,  and  he  is  going  right  on  to  Ken 
tucky,  and  straight  through  the  town  where  Alfred  lives, 
for  I  heard  him  say  so  ;  and  I  asked  him  if  he  would  carry 
anything  for  us,  and  he  said,  *  Yes,  willingly.'  So  I  ran 
home  as  fast  as  I  could  come,  to  tell  you  to  write  a  note,  or 


192  MIND    AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 

do  up  a  paper,  or  something,  because  he  will  be  so  sure  to 
get  it — and  right  from  us,  too,  as  fast  as  it  can  go.  Now  do 
be  quick,  or  the  stage  will  start  off." 

"  Oh,  dear  me,"  exclaimed  Angeline,  "  how  I  do  wish  we 
had  a  New  York  Mirror,  or  a  Philadelphia  Courier,  or  a 
Boston  Gazette,  or  anything  but  this  stupid  Chronicle  !  Do 
look,  Jimmy  !  is  there  nothing  in  this  pile  of  papers?  " 

"  No,  nothing  that  will  do — so  fold  up  the  Chronicle,  quick, 
for  the  stage  is  starting." 

Angeline,  who  had  spent  some  moments  in  looking  for 
another  paper,  now  had  barely  time  to  scrawl  the  short  word 
"  Lina  "  on  the  paper,  wrap  it  in  an  envelop,  and  direct  it. 
Jimmy  snatched  it  as  soon  as  it  was  ready,  and  ran  out" full 
tilt,"  in  knightly  phrase,  or,  as  he  afterwards  said,  "  lickity 
split." 

The  stage  was  coming  on  at  full  speed,  and  he  wished  to 
stop  it.  Many  a  time  had  he  stood  by  the  road-side,  with 
his  school  companions,  and,  waving  his  cap,  and  stretching 
out  his  neck,  had  hallooed,  "  Hurrah  for  Jackson  !  "  and  he 
feared  that,  like  the  boy  in  the  fable,  who  called  "  Wolves  ! 
wolves!  "  if  he  now  shouted  to  them  from  the  road-side, 
they  would  not  heed  him.  So  he  ran  into  the  middle  of  the 
road,  threw  up  his  arms,  and  stood  still.  The  driver  barely 
reined  in  his  horses  within  a  few  feet  of  the  daring  boy. 

"  Where  is  the  man  who  is  going  straight  ahead  to  Ken 
tucky  ?  " 

"  Here,  my  lad,"  replied  a  voice,  as  a  head  popped  out  of 
the  window,  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Well,  here  is  a  paper  which  I  wish  you  to  carry  to  my 
brother  ;  and  if  you  stop  long  enough  where  he  is,  you  must 
go  and  see  him,  and  tell  him  you  saw  me  too." 

"  Well  done,  my  lad  !  you  are  a  keen  one.  I'll  do  your 
bidding — but  do  n't  you  never  run  under  stage-horses  again." 

He  took  the  packet,  while  the  driver  cracked  his  whip ; 
and  the  horses  started  as  the  little  boy  leaped  upon  the  bank, 
shouting,  "Hurra  for  Yankee  Land  and  old  Kentucky  !  " 


CHAPTER    II. 

In  a  rude  log  hut  of  Western  Kentucky  was  seated  an  ani 
mated  and  intelligent-looking  young  man.  A  bright  moon 
was  silvering  the  forest-tops,  which  were  almost  the  only 


THE    VILLAGE    CHRONICLE.  193 

prospect  from  his  window  ;  but  in  that  beauteous  light  the 
rough  clearing  around  seemed  changed  to  fairy  land  ;  and 
even  his  rude  domicile  partook  of  the  transient  renovation. 
His  lone  walls,  his  creviced  roof,  and  ragged  floor,  were 
transformed  beneath  that  silvery  veil  ;  and  truly  did  it  look 
as  though  it  might  well  be  the  abode  of  peaceful  happiness. 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  could  write  poetry  now,"  said  Alfred 
to  himself.  "  Let  me  see — '  The  Spirit's  Call  to  the  Absent,' 
or  something  like  that ;  but  if  1  should  strike  my  light,  and 
really  get  pens,  ink,  and  paper,  it  would  all  evaporate,  van 
ish,  abscond,  make  tracks,  become  scarce,  be  o.  p.  h.  Ah,  yes]! 
the  poetry  would  go,  but  the  feeling,  the  deep  affection, 
which  would  find  some  other  language  than  simple  prose, 
can  never  depart. 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  see  them  all  !  There  is  not  a  cod 
ger  in  my  native  town — not  a  crusty  fusty  old  bachelor — not 
an  envious  tattling  old  maid — not  a  flirt,  sot,  pauper,  idiot,  or 
sainted  hypocrite,  but  I  could  welcome  with  an  embrace. 
But  if  I  could  only  see  my  father,  or  Jimmy,  or  Lina,  dear 
girl !  how  much  better  I  should  feel  !  It  would  make  me 
ten  years  younger,  to  have  a  chat  with  Lina ;  and,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  should  like  to  see  any  woman,  just  to  see  how  it 
would  seem.  I'd  go  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  now,  to  look  at  a 
row  of  aprons  hung  out  to  dry.  But  there  !  it's  no  use 
to  talk. 

"  An  evening  like  this  is  such  an  one  as  might  entice  me 
to  my  mother's  grave,  were  1  at  home.  Oh  !  if  she  were 
but  alive — if  I  could  only  know  that  she  was  still  somewhere 
on  the  wide  earth,  to  think  and  pray  for  me — I  might  be  bet 
ter,  as  well  as  happier.  Methinks  it  must  be  a  blessed  thing 
to  be  a  mother,  if  all  sons  cherish  that  parent's  memory  as  I 
have  mine — and  they  do.  It  cheers  and  sustains  the  exile  in 
a  stranger's  land  ;  it  invigorates  him  in  trial,  and  lights  him 
through  adversity;  it  warns  the  felon,  and  haunts  and  har 
rows  the  convict ;  it  strengthens  the  captive,  and  exhilarates 
the  homeward-bound.  Truly  must  it  be  a  blessed  thing  to 
be  a  mother !  " 

He  stopped — for  in  the  moonlight  was  distinctly  seen  the 
figure  of  a  horseman,  emerging  from  the  public  road,  and 
galloping  across  the  clearing.  He  turned  towards  the  office 
of  the  young  surveyor,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  carrier 
had  related  the  incident  by  which  he  obtained  the  paper,  and 
placed  "  The  Village  Chronicle"  in  Alfred's  hand. 


194  MIND   AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 

He  struck  a  light,  tore  off  the  wrapper,  and  the  only 
written  word  which  met  his  eye  was  "  Lina."  "  Dear 
name  !"  said  he,  "  I  could  almost  kiss  it,  especially  as  there 
is  none  to  see  me.  She  must  have  been  in  a  prodigious  hur 
ry  !  and  how  funny  that  little  rascal,  Jimmy,  must  have 
looked!  Well,  '  when  he  next  doth  run  a  race,  may  I  be 
there  to  see.'  ' 

He  took  the  paper  to  read.  It  was  a  very  late  one — he 
had  never  before  received  one  so  near  the  date  ;  and  even 
that  line  of  dates  was  now  so  pleasing.  First  was  Miss 
Helena  Carroll's  poetry.  "  Dear  girl !"  said  he,  "  what  a 
beautiful  writer  she  is  !  Really,  this  is  poetry !  This  is 
something  which  carries  us  away  from  ourselves,  and  more 
closely  connects  us  with  the  enduring,  high,  and  beautiful. 
Methinks  I  see  her  now — more  thin,  pale,  and  ethereal  in 
her  appearance  than  when  we  were  gay  school-mates-;  but 
I  wonder  that,  with  all  her  treasures  of  heart  and  intellect, 
she  is  still  Helena  Carroll. 

"  And  now  here  is  Miss  Simpkin's  story  of  The  injured 
One  ' — beautiful,  interesting,  and  instructive,  I  am  confi 
dent  ;  and  I  will  read  it,  every  word  ;  but  she  italicises  too 
much  ;  she  throws  too  lavishly  the  bright  robes  of  her  pro 
lific  fancy  upon  the  forms  she  conjures  up  from  New-Eng 
land  hills  and  vales.  I  wonder  if  she  remembers  now  the 
time  when  she  made  me  shake  the  old-apple  tree,  near  the 
pound,  for  her,  and  in  jumping  down,  1  nearly  broke  my 
leg.  Well,  if  I  read  her  story,  I  will  try  that  it  does  not 
break  my  heart. 

"  And  here  is  an  excellent  editorial  about '  Our  Repre 
sentatives  ' — I  will  read  it  again,  and  now  for  the  ITEMS." 

These  were  all  highly  interesting  to  the  absentee,  and  on 
each  did  he  expatiate  to  himself.  How  different  were  his 
feelings  from  his  sister's,  as  he  read  of  the  cracked  bell,  the 
burned  meeting-house,  the  dead  oxen,  the  apoplectic  old 
Colonel,  the  decayed  bridge,  the  hints  of  the  friends  of 
"  good  order  "  and  "  equal  rights."  Then  there  was  a  little 
scene  suggested  by  every  card ;  he  wondered  who  had  their 
heads  examined  at  the  Phrenological  lecture ;  and  if  the 
West  Parish  old  farmers  were  now  as  stiffly  opposed  to  the 
science.  And  how  he  would  like  to  see  Lina's  chart,  and  to 
know  if  Jimmy  had  brains — he  was  sure  he  hud  legs,  and 
a  big  heart  for  a  little  boy  ;  and  he  wondered  what  girls  ran 
up  to  have  their  heads  felt  of  in  public  ;  and  what  the  man 


THE    VILLAGE    CHRONICLE.  195 

said  about  matrimony — an  affair  which  in  old  times  was 
thought  to  have  more  to  do  with  the  heart  than  the  head. 

Then  his  imagination  went  forward  to  the  fair  of  the 
Anti-Slavery  Society,  and  he  wondered  where  it  would  be, 
and  who  would  go,  and  what  Lina  would  make,  and  wheth 
er  so  much  fuss  about  slavery  was  right  or  wrong,  and  if 
"  father  "  approved  of  it.  Then  the  temperance  lecture  was 
the  theme  for  another  self-disquisition.  He  wondered  who 
had  joined  the  society,  and  how  the  Washingtonians  held 
out,  and  if  Mr.  Hawkins  was  ever  coming  to  the  West. 

Then  he  was  glad  the  trustees  were  determined  to  resus 
citate  the  old  academy.  What  grand  times  he  had  enjoyed 
there,  especially  at  the  exhibitions  !  and  he  wondered  where 
all  the  pretty  girls  were  who  used  to  go  to  school  with  his 
bachelorship.  Then  they  were  to  have  a  new  alms-house  ; 
and  forty  more  things  were  mentioned,  of  equal  interest — 
not  forgetting  Mr.  Olden's  accident,  for  which  "father 
would  be  so  sorry."  Then  there  were  the  Marriages  and 
Deaths — each  a  subject  of  deep  interest,  as  was  also  the  list 
of  Bankrupts.  The  foreign  news  was  news  to  him  ;  and 
Congress  matters  were  not  passed  unheeded  by. 

Then  he  read  with  deep  interest  every  "  Assessor's  No 
tice,"  also  those  of  "  Assignees,"  "  Contractors,"  and 
•'  Auctioneers."  There  was  not  a  single  "  Whereas  "  or 
';  Resolved,"  but  was  most  carefully  perused  ;  and  every 
"  Be  it  enacted  "  stared  him  in  the  face  like  an  old  familiar 
friend . 

Then  there  were  the  advertisements ;  and  Grosvenor's 
first  attracted  his  attention  from  its  big  letters.  "  CHENIE- 
DE-LAINES  !"  said  he,  "  What  in  the  name  of  common 
sense  are  they?  Something  for  gal's  gowns,  I  guess]  and 
what  will  they  next  invent  for  a  name?" 

But  each  advertisement  told  its  little  history.  Some  of 
the  old  "pillars"  of  the  town  were  still  in  their  accustomed 
places.  The  same  signatures,  places,  and  almost  the  same 
goods — nothing  much  changed  but  the  dates.  Another  ad 
vertisement  informed  him  of  the  dissolution  of  an  old  copart 
nership,  and  another  showed  the  formation  of  a  new  one. 
Some  old  acquaintances  had  changed  their  location  or  busi 
ness,  and  others  were  about  to  retire  from  it.  Those  whom 
he  remembered  as  almost  boys,  were  now  just  entering  into 
active  life,  and  those  who  should  now  be  preparing  for  anoth 
er  world  were  still  laying  up  treasures  on  earth.  One,  who 


196  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

had  been  a  farmer,  was  now  advertising  himself  as  a  doctor. 
A  lawyer  had  changed  into  a  miller,  and  old  Capt  Prouty 
was  post-master.  The  former  cobler  now  kept  the  book 
store,  and  the  young  major  had  turned  printer.  The  old 
printer  was  endeavoring  to  collect  his  debts — for  he  said  his 
devil  had  gone  to  Oregon,  and  he  wished  to  go  to  the  devil. 

Not  a  single  puff  did  Alfred  omit ;  he  noticed  every  new 
book,  and  swallowed  every  new  nostrum.  "Old  rags," 
"  Buffalo  Oil,"  "  Bear's  Grease,"  "Com  Plaster,"  "  Lip 
Salve,"  "Accordions,"  "Feather  Renovators,"  "Silk 
Dye-Houses,"  Worm  Lozenges,"  "  Ready-made  Clothing," 
"  Ladies'  Slips,"  "  Misses'  Ties,"  "  Christmas  Presents," 
•"Sugar-house Molasses, ""Choice Butter, "  "ShellCombs," 
•"  New  Music,"  "Healing  Lotions,"  "Last  Chance," 
"Hats  and  Caps,"  "  Prime  Cost,"  "  Family  Pills,"  "  La 
dies'  Cuff  Pins,"  "  Summer  Boots,"  "  Vegetable  Con 
serve,"  "  Muffs  and  Boas,"  "  Pease's  Horehound  Candy," 
"White  Ash  Coal,"  "  Bullard's  Oil-Soap,"  "  Universal 
Panacea,"  "  Tailoress  Wanted,"  "Unrivalled  Elixir," 
"  Excellent  Vanilla,"  "  Taylor's  Spool  Cotton,"  "  Rooms 
to  Let,"  "  Chairs  and  Tables,"  "  Pleasant  House,"  "  Par 
ticular  notice,"  "  Family  Groceries,"  "  A  Removal,"  "An 
ti-Dyspeptic  Bitters,"  &c.,  &c.,  down  to  "  One  Cent  Re 
ward — Ran  away  from  the  Subscriber,"  &c. — Yes  ;  he  had 
read  them  all,  and  all  with  much  interest ,  but  one  with  a 
deeper  feeling  than  was  awakened  by  the  others.  It  was 
the  notice  of  the  sale  of  the  late  Mr.  Gardner's  House,  farm, 
*&c. 

"  And  so,"  said  Alfred,  "  Cynthia  Gardner  is  now  free. 
She  used  to  love  me  dearly — at  least  she  said  so  in  every 
thing  but  words  ;  but  the  old  man  said  she  should  never 
marry  a  harum-scarum  scape-grace  like  me.  Well !  it's  no 
.great  matter  if  I  did  sow  all  my  wild  oats  then,  for  there  is 
too  little  cleared  land  to  do  much  at  it  here.  The  old  gen 
tleman  is  dead,  and  I'll  forgive  him;  but  I  will  write  this 
very  night  to  Cynthia,  and  ask  her  to — 

'  come,  and  with  me  share 

Whate'er  my  hut  bestows  j 
My  cornstalk  bed,  my  frugal  fare, 
My  labor  and  repose.'" 

LuClNDA. 


AMBITION    AND    CONTENTMENT.  197 


AMBITION  AND  CONTENTMENT. 

IT  has  been  said  that  all  virtues,  carried  to  their  extremes, 
become  vices,  as  firmness  may  be  carried  to  obstinacy, 
gentleness  to  weakness,  faith  to  superstition,  &c.,  &c.  ;  and 
that  while  cultivating  them,  a  perpetual  care  is  necessary 
that  they  may  not  be  resolved  into  those  kindred  vices.  But 
there  are  other  qualities  of  so  opposite  a  character,  that, 
though  we  may  acknowledge  them  both  to  be  virtues, we  can 
hardly  cherish  them  at  the  same  time. 

Contentment  is  a  virtue  often  urged  upon  us,  and  too  often 
neglected.  It  is  essential  to  our  happiness  ;  for  how  can  we 
experience  pleasure  while  dissatisfied  with  the  station  which 
has  been  allotted  us,  or  the  circumstances  which  befall  us  ? 
but  when  contentment  degenerates  into  that  slothful  feeling 
which  will  not  exert  itself  for  a  greater  good — which  would 
sit,  and  smile  at  ease  upon  the  gifts  which  Providence  has 
forced  upon  its  possessor,  and  turns  away  from  the  objects, 
which  call  for  the  active  spring  and  tenacious  grasp — when, 
I  repeat,  contentment  is  but  another  excuse  for  indolence,  it 
then  has  ceased  to  be  a  virtue. 

And  Ambition,  which  is  so  often  denounced  as  a  vice — 
which  is  a  vice  when  carried  to  an  extent  that  would  lead  its 
votary  to  grasp  all  upon  which  it  can  lay  its  merciless  clutch, 
and  which  heeds  not  the  rights  or  possessions  of  a  fellow- 
being  when  conflicting  with  its  own  domineering  will,  which 
then  becomes  so  foul  a  vice — this  same  ambition,  when  kept 
within  its  proper  bounds,  is  then  a  virtue  ;  and  not  only  a 
virtue,  but  the  parent  of  virtues.  The  spirit  of  laudable  en 
terprise,  the  noble  desire  for  superior  excellence,  the  just 
emulation  which  would  raise  itself  to  an  equality  with  the 
highest — all  this  is  the  fruit  of  ambition. 

Here  then  are  two  virtues,  ambition  and  contentment, 
both  to  be  commended,  both  to  be  cherished,  yet  at  first 
glance  at  variance  with  each  other;  at  all  events,  with  diffi 
culty  kept  within  those  proper  boonds  which  will  prevent  a 
conflict  between  them. 

We  are  not  metaphysicians,  and  did  we  possess  the  pow 
er  to  draw  those  finely-pencilled  mental  and  moral  distinc 
tions  in  which  the  acute  reasoner  delights  so  often  to  display 


198  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

his  power,  this  would  be  no  place  for  us  to  indulge  our  love 
ior  nicely  attenuated  theories.  We  are  aware,  that  to  cher 
ish  ambition  for  the  good  it  may  lead  us  to  acquire,  for  the 
noble  impulses  of  which  it  may  be  the  fountain-spring,  and 
yet  to  restrain  those  waters  when  they  would  gush  forth 
with  a  tide  which  would  bear  away  all  better  feelings  of  the 
heart — this,  we  know,  is  not  only  difficult,  but  almost  im 
possible. 

To  strive  for  a  position  upon  some  loftier  eminence,  and 
yet  to  remain  unruffled  if  those  strivings  are  in  vain  ;  to  re 
main  calm  and  cheerful  within  the  little  circle  where  Provi 
dence  has  stationed  us,  yet  actively  endeavoring  to  enlarge 
that  circle,  if  not  to  obtain  admittance  to  a  higher  one  ;  to 
plume  the  pinions  of  the  soul  for  an  upward  flight,  yet  calm 
ly  sink  again  to  the  earth  if  these  efforts  are  but  useless 
flutterings  ;  all  this  seems  coutradictory,  though  essential 
to  perfection  of  character. 

Thankfulness  for  what  we  have,  yet  longings  for  a  great 
er  boon  ;  resignation  to  a  humble  lot,  and  a  determination 
that  it  shall  not  always  be  humble  ;  ambition  and  content 
ment — how  wide  the  difference,  and  how  difficult  for  one 
breast  to  harbor  them  both  at  the  same  time  ! 

Nothing  so  forcibly  convinces  us  of  the  frailty  of  humanity 
as  the  tendency  of  all  that  is  good  and  beautiful  to  corrup 
tion.  As  in  the  natural  world,  earth's  loveliest  things  are 
those  which  yield  most  easily  to  blighting  and  decay,  so  in 
the  spiritual,  the  noblest  feelings  and  powers  are  closely 
linked  to  some  dark  passion. 

How  easily  does  ambition  become  rapacity  ;  and  if  the 
heart's  yearnings  for  the  unattainable  are  forcibly  stilled, 
and  the  mind  is  governed  by  the  determination  that  no  wish 
shall  be  indulged  but  for  that  already  in  its  power,  how 
soon  and  easily  may  it  sink  into  the  torpor  of  inaction  !  To 
keep  all  the  faculties  in  healthful  exercise,  yet  always  to 
estrain  the  feverish  glow,  must  require  a  constant  and  vigi 
lant  self-command. 

How  soon,  in  that  long-past  sacred  time  when  the  Savior 
dwelt  on  earth,  did  the  zeal  of  one  woman  in  her  Master's 
cause  become  tainted  with  the  earth-born  wish  that  her  sons 
might  be  placed,  the  one  upon  his  right  and  the  other  upon 
his  left  hand,  when  he  should  sit  upon  his  throne  of  glory  ; 
and  how  soon  was  their  ardent  love  mingled  with  the  fiery 
zeal  which  would  call  down  fire  from  heaven  upon  the  heads 
of  their  fellow-men ! 


A   CONVERSATION    ON    PHYSIOLOGY.  199 

Here  was  ambition,  but  not  a  justifiable  desire  for  eleva 
tion  ;  an  ambition,  also,  which  had  its  source  in  some  of  the 
noblest  feelings  of  the  soul,  and  which,  when  directed  by  tin- 
pure  principles  which  afterwards  guided  their  conduct,  was 
the  heart-spring  of  deeds  which  shall  claim  the  admiration, 
and  spur  to  emulous  exertions,  the  men  of  all  coming  time. 

"  Be  content  with  what  ye  have,"  but  never  with  whatyo 
are  ;  for  the  wish  to  be  perfect,  "  even  as  our  Father  in 
heaven  is  perfect,"  must  ever  be  mingled  with  regrets  for 
the  follies  and  frailties  which  our  weak  nature  seems  to  have, 
entailed  upon  us. 

And  while  we  endeavor  to  be  submissive,  cheerful,  and 
contented  with  the  lot  marked  out  for  us,  may  gratitude 
arouse  us  to  the  noble  desire  to  render  ourselves  worthy  of  a 
nobler  station  than  earth  can  ever  present  us,  even  to  a 
place  upon  our  Savior's  right  hand  in  his  heavenly  kingdom. 

H.  F. 


A  CONVERSATION  ON  PHYSIOLOGY. 


INTRODUCTION. 

PHYSIOLOGY,  Astronomy,  Geology,  Botany,  and  kindred 
sciences,  are  not  now,  as  formerly,  confined  to  our  higher 
seminaries  of  learning.  They  are  being  introduced  into  the 
common  schools,  not  only  of  our  large  towns  and  cities,  but 
of  our  little  villages  throughout  New-England.  Hence 
a  knowledge  of  these  sciences  is  becoming  general.  It  needs 
not  Sibylline  wisdom  to  predict  that  the  time  is  not  far  dis 
tant  when  it  will  be  more  disadvantageous  and  more  humil 
iating  to  be  ignorant  of  their  principles  and  technicalities, 
than  to  be  unable  to  tell  the  length  and  breadth  of  Sahara, 
the  rise,  course  and  fall  of  little  rivers  in  other  countries, 
which  we  shall  never  see,  never  hear  mentioned — and  the 
latitude  and  longitude  of  remote  or  obscure  cities  and  towns. 
If  a  friend  would  describe  a  flower,  she  would  not  tell  us 
that  it  has  so  many  flower-leaves,  so  many  of  those  shortest 
things  that  rise  from  the  centre  of  the  flower,  and  so  many 
of  the  longest  ones  ;  but  she  will  express  herself  with  more 


200  MIND     AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

elegance  and  rapidity  by  using  the  technical  names  of  these 
parts — petals,  stamens,  and  pistils.  She  will  not  tell  us 
that  the  green  leaves  are  formed  some  like  a  rose-leaf,  only 
that  they  are  rounder,  or  more  pointed,  as  the  case  may  be  ; 
or  if  she  can  find  no  similitudes,  she  will  not  use  fifty  words 
in  conveying  an  idea  that  might  be  given  in  one  little  word. 
We  would  be  able  to  understand  her  philosophical  descrip 
tion.  And  scientific  lectures,  the  sermons  of  our  best  preach 
ers,  and  the  conversation  of  the  intelligent,  presuppose 
some  degree  of  knowledge  of  the  most  important  sciences  ; 
and  to  those  who  have  not  this  knowledge,  half  their  zest  is 
lost. 

If  we  are  so  situated  that  we  cannot  attend  school,  we 
have,  by  far  the  greater  part  of  us,  hours  for  reading,  and 
means  to  purchase  books.  We  should  be  systematic  in  our 
expenditures.  They  should  be  regulated  by  the  nature  of 
the  circumstances  in  which  we  find  ourselves  placed, — by 
our  wages,  state  of  health,  and  the  situation  of  our  families. 
After  a  careful  consideration  of  these,  and  other  incidentals 
that  may  be,  we  can  make  a  periodical  appropriation  of  any 
sum  we  please,  for  the  purchase  of  books.  Our  readings, 
likewise,  should  be  systematic.  If  we  take  physiology, 
physiology  should  be  read  exclusively  of  all  others,  except 
our  Bibles  and  a  few  well-chosen  periodicals,  until  we  ac 
quire  a  knowledge  of  its  most  essential  parts.  Then  let  this 
be  superseded  by  others,  interrupted  in  their  course  only  by 
occasional  reviews  of  those  already  studied,. 

But  there  are  those  whose  every  farthing  is  needed  to 
supply  themselves  with  necessary  clothing,  their  unfortunate 
parents,  or  orphan  brothers  and  sisters  with  a  subsistence. 
And  forever  sacred  be  these  duties.  Blessings  be  on  the 
head  of  those  who  faithfully  discharge  them,  by  a  cheerful 
sacrifice  of  selfish  gratification.  Cheerful,  did  I  say  ?  Ah ! 
many  will  bear  witness  to  the  pangs  which  such  a  sacrifice 
costs  them.  It  is  a  hard  lot  to  be  doomed  to  live  on  in  igno 
rance,  when  one  longs  for  knowledge,  "  as  the  hart  panteth 
after  the  water  brook."  My  poor  friend  L.'s  complaint 
will  meet  an  answering  thrill  of  sympathy  in  many  a  heart. 
"  Oh,  why  is  it  so?"  said  she,  while  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks.  "Why  have  I  such  a  thirst  for  knowledge,  and  not 
one  source  of  gratification?"  We  may  not  know  why,  my 
sister,  but  faith  bids  us  trust  in  God,  and  "  rest  in  his  de 
cree," — to  be  content  "  when  he  refuses  more."  Yet  a 


A    CONVERSATION    ON    PHYSIOLOGY.  201 

spirit  of  true  contentment  induces  no  indolent  yieldings  to  ad 
verse  circumstances ;  no  slumbering  and  folding  the  hands 
in  sleep,  when  there  is  so  much  within  the  reach  of  every 
one,  worthy  of  our  strongest  and  most  persevering  efforts. 
Mrs.  Hale  says, — 

"  There  is  a  charm  in  knowledge,  best  when  bought 

By  vigorous  toil  of  frame  and  earnest  search  of  thought." 

And  we  will  toil.  Morning,  noon,  and  evening  shall  wit 
ness  our  exertions  to  prepare  for  happiness  and  usefulness 
here,  and  for  the  exalted  destiny  that  awaits  us  hereafter. 
But  proper  attention  should  be  paid  to  physical  comfort  as 
well  as  to  mental  improvement.  It  is  only  by  retaining  the 
former  that  we  can  command  the  latter.  The  mind  cannot 
be  vigorous  while  the  body  is  weak.  Hence  we  should  not 
allow  our  toils  to  enter  upon  those  hours  which  belong  to 
repose.  We  should  not  allow  ourselves,  however  strong 
the  temptation,  to  visit  the  lecture-room,  &c.,  if  the  state  of 
the  weather,  or  of  our  health,  renders  the  experiment  haz 
ardous.  Above  all,  we  should  not  forget  our  dependence 
on  a  higher  Power.  "  Paul  may  plant,  and  Apollos  water, 
but  God  alone  giveth  the  increase." 

Ann.  Isabel,  before  we  commence  our  "  big  talk,"  let  me 
ask  you  to  proceed  upon  the  inference  that  we  are  totally 
ignorant  of  the  subject  under  discussion. 

Ellinora.  Yes,  Isabel,  proceed  upon  the  fact  that  I  am 
ignorant  even  of  the  meaning  of  the  term  physiology. 

Isabel.  It  comes  from  the  Greek  words  phusis,  nature,  and 
logia,  a  collection,  or  logos,  discourse  ;  and  means  a  collec 
tion  of  facts  or  discourse  relating  to  nature.  Physiology  is 
divided,  first,  into  Vegetable  and  Animal ;  and  the  latter  is 
subdivided  into  Comparative  and  Human.  We  shall  confine 
our  attention  to  Human  Physiology,  which  treats  of  the  or 
gans  of  the  human  body,  their  mutual  dependence  and  rela 
tion,  their  functions,  and  the  laws  by  which  our  physical 
constitution  is  governed. 

A.  And  are  you  so  heretical,  dear  Isabel,  as  to  class  this 
science,  on  the  score  of  utility,  with  Arithmetic  aud  Geogra 
phy — the  alpha  and  omega  of  common  school  education  ? 

/.  Yes.  It  is  important,  inasmuch  as  it  is  necessary  that 
we  know  how  to  preserve  the  fearfully  delicate  fabric  which 


202  MIND   AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES. 

our  Creator  has  entrusted  to  our  keeping.  We  gather  many 
wholesome  rules  and  cautions  from  maternal  lips ;  we  learn 
many  more  from  experiencing  the  painful  results  that  follow 
their  violation.  But  this  kind  of  knowledge  comes  tardily  ; 
it  may  he  when  an  infringement  of  some  organic  law,  of 
which  we  were  left  in  ignorance,  has  fastened  upon  us  pain 
ful,  perhaps  fatal,  disease. 

A.  We  may  not  always  avoid  sickness  and  premature 
death  by  a  knowledge  and  observance  of  these  laws  ;  for 
there  are  hereditary  diseases,  in  whose  origin  we  are  not  im 
plicated,  and  whose  effects  we  cannot  eradicate  from  our 
system  by  "  all  knowledge,  all  device." 

/.  But  a  knowledge  of  Physiology  is  none  the  less  im 
portant  in  this  case.  If  the  chords  of  our  existence  are 
shattered,  they  must  be  touched  only  by  the  skilful  hand,  or 
they  break. 

E.  Were  it  not  for  this,  were  there  no  considerations  of 
utility  in  the  plea,  there  are  others  sufficiently  important  to 
become  impulsive.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  be  able  to  trace 
the  phenomena  which  we  are  constantly  observing  within 
ourselves  to  their  right  causes. 

/.  Yes ;  we  love  to  understand  the  springs  of  disease, 
even  though  "  a  discovery  of  the  cause  "  neither  "  suspends 
the  effect,  nor  heals  it."  We  rejoice  in  health,  and  we 
love  to  know  why  it  sits  so  strongly  within  us.  The  warm 
blood  courses  its  way  through  our  veins ;  the  breath  comes 
and  goes  freely  in  and  out ;  the  nerves,  those  subtle  organs, 
perform  their  important  offices  ;  the  hand,  foot,  brain — nay, 
the  whole  body  moves  as  we  will :  we  taste,  see,  hear,  smell, 
feel ;  and  the  inquiring  mind  delights  in  knowing  by  what 
means  these  wonderful  processes  are  carried  on, — how  far 
they  are  mechanical,  how  far  chemical,  and  how  far  resolv 
able  into  the  laws  of  vitality.  This  wre  may  learn  by  a  study 
of  Physiology,  at  least  as  far  as  is  known.  We  may  not 
satisfy  ourselves  upon  all  points.  There  may  be,  when  we 
have  finished  our  investigations,  a  longing  for  a  more  perfect 
knowledge  of  ourselves  ;  for  "  some  points  must  be  greatly 
dark,"  so  long  as  mind  is  fettered  in  its  rangings,  and 
retarded  in  its  investigations  by  its  connection  with  the  body. 
And  this  is  well.  We  love  to  think  of  the  immortal  state  as 
one  in  which  longings  for  moral  and  intellectual  improve 
ment  will  all  be  satisfied. 

A.  Yes  ;  it  would  lose  half  its  attractions  if  we  might  at 
tain  perfection  here. 


A    CONVERSATION    ON    PHYSIOLOGY.  203 

E.  And  now  permit  me  to  bring  you  at  once  to  our  sub 
ject.  What  is  this  life  that  I  feel  within  me?  Does  Physi 
ology  tell  us  ?  It  ought. 

/.  It  does  not,   however;  indeed,  it  cannot.     It  merely 
develops  its  principles. 
E.  The  principles  of  life — what  are  they  1 
/.  The  most  important  are  contractility  and  sensibility, 

E.  Let  me  advertise  you  that  I  am  particularly  hostile  to 
technical  words — all  because  I  do  not  understand  them,  I 
allow,  but  please  humor  this  ignorance  by  avoiding  them. 

/.  And  thus  perpetuate  your  ignorance,  my  dear  Ellinora 7 
No  ;  this  will  not  do  ;  for  my  chief  object  in  these  conversa 
tions  is  that  you  may  be  prepared  to  profit  by  lectures, 
essays  and  conversation  hereafter.  You  will  often  be  thrown 
into  the  company  of  those  who  express  themselves  in  the 
easiest  and  most  proper  manner,  that  is,  by  the  use  of  tech 
nical  words  and  phrases.  These  will  embarrass  you,  and 
prevent  that  improvement  which  would  be  derived,  if  these 
terms  were  understood.  Interrupt  me  as  often  as  you  please 
with  questions  ;  and  if  we  spend  the  remainder  of  the  eve 
ning  in  compiling  a  physiological  glossary,  we  may  all  reap 
advantage  from  the  exercise.  To  return  to  the  vital  princi 
ples — vital  is  from  vita,  life — contractibility  and  sensibility. 
The  former  is  the  property  of  the  muscles.  The  muscles, 
you  know,  are  what  we  call  flesh.  They  are  composed  of 
fibres,  which  terminate  in  tendons. 

Alice.  Please  give  form  to  my  ideas  of  the  tendons. 

/.  With  the  muscles,  they  constitute  the  agents  of  all  mo 
tion  in  us.  Place  your  hand  on  the  inside  of  your  arm,  and 
then  bend  your  elbow.  You  perceive  that  cord,  do  you  not  ? 
That  is  a  tendon.  You  have  observed  them  in  animals, 
doubtless. 

Ann.  I  have.  They  are  round,  white,  and  lustrous  ;  and 
these  are  the  muscular  terminations. 

/.  Yes  ;  this  tendon  which  you  perceive,  is  the  termina 
tion  of  the  muscles  of  the  fore- arm,  and  it  is  inserted  into 
the  lower  arm  to  assist  in  its  elevation. 

E.  Now  we  are  coming  to  it.  Please  tell  me  how  I  move 
a  finger — how  I  raise  my  hand  in  this  manner. 

/.  It  is  to  the  contractile  power  of  the  muscles  that  you 
are  indebted  for  this  power.  I  will  read  what  Dr.  Paley 
says  of  muscular  contraction ;  it  will  make  it  clearer  than 
any  explanation  of  mine.  He  says,  "  A  muscle  acts  only  by 


204  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

contraction.  Its  force  is  exerted  in  no  other  way.  When 
the  exertion  ceases,  it  relaxes  itself,  that  is,  it  returns  by 
relaxation  to  its  former  state,  but  without  energy. 

E.  Just  as  this  India-rubber  springs  back  after  extension, 
for  illustration. 

/.  Very  well,  Ellinora.  He  adds,  "  This  is  the  nature 
of  the  muscular  fibre  ;  and  being  so,  it  is  evident  that  the 
reciprocal  energetic  motion  of  the  limbs,  by  which  we 
mean  with  force  in  opposite  directions,  can  only  be  produced 
by  the  instrumentality  of  opposite  or  antagonist  muscles — of 
flexors  and  extensors  answering  to  each  other.  For  instance, 
the  biceps  and  brachiaeus  internus  muscles,  placed  in  the 
front  part  of  the  upper  arm,  by  their  contraction,  bend  the 
elbow,  and  with  such  a  degree  offeree  as  the  case  requires, 
or  the  strength  admits.  The  relaxation  of  these  muscles, 
after  the  effort,  would  merely  let  the  fore-arm  drop  down. 
For  the  back  stroke  therefore,  and  that  the  arm  may  not  only 
bend  at  the  elbow,  but  also  extend  and  straighten  itself  with 
force,  other  muscles,  the  longus,  and  brevis  brachiseus  exter- 
nus,  and  the  aconaeus,  placed  on  the  hinder  part  of  the  arms, 
by  their  contractile  twitch,  fetch  back  the  fore-arm  into  a 
straight  line  with  the  cubit,  with  no  less  force  than  that  with 
which  it  was  bent  out.  The  same  thing  obtains  in  all  the 
limbs,  and  in  every  moveable  part  of  the  body.  A  finger  is 
not  bent  and  straightened  without  the  contraction  of  two  mus 
cles  taking  place.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  the  animal 
functions  require  that  particular  disposition  of  the  muscles 
which  we  describe  by  the  name  of  antagonist  muscles." 

A.  Thank  you,  Isabel.  This  does  indeed  make  the  sub 
ject  very  plain.  These  muscles  contract  at  will. 

E.  But  how  can  the  will  operate  in  this  manner1?  I  have 
always  wished  to  understand. 

/.  And  I  regret  that  I  cannot  satisfy  you  on  this  point. 
If  we  trace  the  cause  of  muscular  action  by  the  nerves  to 
the  brain,  we  are  no  nearer  a  solution  of  the  mystery  ;  for 
we  cannot  know  what  power  sets  the  organs  of  the  brain  at 
work — whether  it  be  foreign  to  or  of  itself. 

We  will  come  now,  if  you  please  to  sensibility,  which  be 
longs  to  the  nerves. 

A.  I  have  a  very  indefinite  idea  of  the  nerves. 

E.  My  ideal  is  sufficiently  definite  in  its  shape,  but  so 
droll!  I  do  not  think  of  them  as  "  being  flesh  of  my  flesh," 
but  as  a  species  of  the  genus  fairy.  They  are  to  us,  what 


A    CONVERSATION    ON    PHYSIOLOGY.  205 

the  Nereides  are  to  the  green  wave,  the  Dryades  to  the  oak, 
and  the  Hamadryades  to  the  little  flower.  They  are  quite 
omnipotent  in  their  operations.  They  make  us  cry  or  they 
make  us  laugh  ;  thrill  us  with  rapture  or  woe  as  they  please. 
And,  my  dear  Isabel,  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  cheat  me  out 
of  this  pleasing  fancy.  You  may  tell  us  just  what  they  are, 
but  I  shall  be  as  incredulous  as  possible. 

/.  They  are  very  slender  white  cords,  extending  from  the 
brain  and  spinal  marrow — twelve  pairs  from  the  former,  and 
thirty  from  the  latter.  These  send  out  branches  so  numer 
ous  that  we  cannot  touch  the  point  of  a  pin  to  a  spot  that  has 
not  its  nerve.  The  mucous  membrane  is — 

F.  Oh,  these  technicals!  What  is  the  mucous  mem 
brane  ? 

/.  It  is  a  texture,  or  web  of  fibres,  which  lines  all  cavities 
exposed  to  the  atmosphere — for  instance,  the  mouth,  wind 
pipe  and  stomach.  It  is  the  seat  of  the  senses  of  taste  and 
smell. 

E.  And  the  nerves  are  the  little  witches  that  inform  the 
brain  how  one  thing  is  sweet,  another  bitter ;  one  fragrant, 
another  nauseous.  Alimentiveness  ever  after  frowns  or 
smiles  accordingly.  So  it  seems  that  the  actions  of  the 
brain,  and  of  the  external  senses,  are  reciprocated  by  the 
nerves,  or  something  of  this  sort.  How  is  it,  Isabel?  Oh, 
I  see !  You  say  sensibility  belongs  to  the  nerves.  So 
sights  by  means  of— of  what  ? 

I.  Of  the  optical  nerves. 

E.  Yes ;  and  sounds  by  means  of  the — 

/.  Auditory  nerves. 

E.  Yes;  convey  impressions  of  externals  to  the  brain. 
And  "  Upon  this  hint  "  the  brain  acts  in  its  consequent  re 
flections,  and  in  the  nervous  impulses  which  induce  muscular 
contractibility.  And  this  muscular  contractibility  is  a  con 
traction  of  the  fibres  of  the  muscles.  This  contraction,  of 
course,  shortens  them,  and  this  latter  must  result  in  the 
bending  of  the  arm.  I  think  I  understand  it.  What  are  the 
brain  and  spine,  Isabel  ?  How  are  they  connected  ? 

/.  You  will  get  correct  ideas  of  the  texture  of  the  brain 
by  observing  that  of  animals.  It  occupies  the  whole  cavity 
of  the  skull,  is  rounded  and  irregular  in  its  form,  full  of 
prominences,  alias  humps.  These  appear  to  fit  themselves 
to  the  skull ;  but  doubtless  the  bone  is  moulded  by  the  brain. 
The  brain  is  divided  into  two  parts  ;  the  upper  and  frontal 
18 


206  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

part  is  called  the  cerebrum,  the  other  the  cerebellum.  The 
former  is  the  larger  division,  and  is  the  seat  of  the  moral 
sentiments  and  intellectual  faculties.  The  latter  is  the  seat 
of  the  propensities,  domestic  and  selfish. 

A.  I  thank  you,  Isabel.  Now,  what  is  this  spine,  of 
which  there  is  so  much  "  complaint  "  now-a-days  ? 

I.  I  will  answer  you  from  Paley  :  "  The  spine,  or  back 
bone,  is  a  chain  of  joints  of  very  wonderful  construction.  It 
was  to  be  firm,  yet  flexible  ;  firm,  to  support  the  erect  posi 
tion  of  the  body  ;  flexible,  to  allow  of  the  bending  of  the 
the  trunk  in  all  degrees  of  curvature.  It  was  further,  also, 
to  become  a  pipe  or  conduit  for  the  safe  conveyance  from  the 
brain  of  the  most  important  fluid  of  the  animal  frame,  that, 
namely,  upon  which  all  voluntary  motion  depends,  the  spinal 
marrow  ;  a  substance  notonly  of  the  first  necessity  to' action, 
if  not  to  life,  but  of  a  nature  so  delicate  and  tender,  so  sus 
ceptible  and  impatient  of  injury,  that  any  unusual  pressure 
upon  it,  or  any  considerable  obstruction  of  its  course,  is  fol 
lowed  by  paralysis  or  death.  Now,  the  spine  was  not  only 
to  fnrnish  the  main  trunk  for  the  passage  of  the  medullary 
substance  from  the  brain,  but  to  give  out,  in  the  course  of 
its  progress,  small  pipes  therefrom,  which,  being  afterwards 
indefinitely  subdivided,  might,  under  the  name  of  nerves, 
distribute  this  exquisite  supply  to  every  part  of  the  body." 

Alice.  I  understand  now  why  disease  of  the  spine  causes 
such  involuntary  contortions  and  gestures,  in  some  instances. 
Its  connection  with  the  brain  and  nerves  is  so  immediate,  that 
it  cannot  suffer  disease  without  affecting  the  whole  nervous 
system. 

/.  It  cannot.  The  spinal  cord  or  marrow  is  a  continuation 
of  the  brain.  But  we  must  not  devote  any  more  time  to  this 
subject. 

Bertha.    I  want  to  ask  you  something  about  the  different 

parts  of  the  eye,  Isabel.    When lectured  on 

optics,  I  lost  nearly  all  the  benefit  of  his  lecture,  except  a 
newly  awakened  desire  for  knowledge  on  this  subject.  He 
talked  of  the  retina,  cornea,  iris,  &c.  ;  please  tell  me  pre 
cisely  what  they  are. 

/.  The  retina  is  a  nervous  membrane  ;  in  other  words  a 
thin  net-work,  formed  of  very  minute  sensitive  filaments. 
It  is  supposed  by  some  to  be  an  expansion  of  the  optic  nerve  ; 
and  on  this  the  images  of  objects  we  see  are  formed.  It  is 


A  CONVERSATION  ON  PHYSIOLOGY.  207 

situated  at  the  back  part  of  the  eye.     Rays  pass  through  the 
round  opening-  in  the  iris,  which  we  call  the  pupil. 

B.  What  did  the  lecturer  say  is  the  cause  of  the  color  of 
the  pupil  ? 

/.  He  said  that  its  want  of  color  is  to  be  imputed  to  the 
fact  that  rays  of  light  which  enter  there  are  not  returned  ; 
they  fall  on  the  retina,  forming  there  images  of  objects.  And 
you  recollect  he  said  that  "  absence  of  rays  is  blackness." 
The  iris  is  a  kind  of  curtain,  covering  the  aqueous  humor — 
aqueous  is  from  the  Latin  aqua,  water.  It  is  confined  only 
at  its  outer  edge,  or  circumference ;  and  is  supplied  with 
muscular  fibres  which  confer  the  power  of  adjustment  to  every 
degree  of  light.  It  contracts  or  dilates  involuntarily,  as  the 
light  is  more  or  less  intense,  as  you  must  have  observed.  The 
rays  of  light  falling  on  that  part  of  the  iris  which  immedi 
ately  surrounds  the  pupil,  cause  it  to  be  either  black,  blue,  or 
hazel.  We  will  not  linger  on  this  ground,  for  it  belongs  more 
properly  to  Natural  Philosophy.  We  will  discuss  the  other 
four  senses  as  briefly  as  possible.  "The  sense  of  taste," 
says  Hay  ward,  "  resides  in  the  mucus  membrane  of  the 
tongue,  the  lips,  the  cheeks,  and  the  fauces."  Branches  of 
nerves  extend  to  every  part  of  the  mouth  where  the  sense  of 
taste  resides.  The  fluid  with  which  the  mouth  is  constantly 
moistened  is  called  mucus,  and  chiefly  subserves  to  the  sense 
of  taste. 

Ann.  I  have  observed  that  when  the  mucus  is  dried  by 
fever,  food  is  nearly  tasteless.  I  now  understand  the  reason. 

E.  Apropos  to  the  senses,  let  me  ask  if  feeeling  and  touch 
are  the  same.  'Alfred  says  they  are  ;  I  contend  they  are  not, 
precisely. 

/.  Hay  ward  thinks  a  distinction  between  them  unnecessary. 
He  says  they  are  both  seated  in  the  same  organs,  and  have  the 
same  nerves.  But  the  sense  of  feeling  is  more  general,  ex 
tending  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  skin  and  mucus  mem 
brane,  while  that  of  touch  is  limited  to  particular  parts,  being 
in  man  most  perfect  in  the  hand  ;  and  the  sense  of  feeling  is 
passive,  while  that  of  touch  is  active.  This  sense  is  in  the 
skin,  and  is  most  perfect  where  the  epidermis,  or  external 
coat,  is  the  thinnest.  We  will  look  through  this  little  magni 
fying  glass  at  the  skin  on  my  hand.  You  will  see  very  mi 
nute  prominences  all  over  the  surface.  These  points  are 
called  papillae.  They  are  supposed  to  be  the  termination  of 
the  nerves,  and  the  locale  of  sensation. 


208  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

E.  Will  you  shape  my  ideas  of  sensation  ? 

/.  According  to  Lord  Brougham,  one  of  the  English  ed 
itors  of  this  edition  of  Paley,  it  is  "  the  effect  produced  upon 
the  mind  by  the  operation  of  the  senses  ;  and  involves  noth 
ing  like  an  exertion  of  the  mind  itself." 

Of  the  sense  of  hearing,  I  can  tell  you  but  little.  Physi 
ologists  have  doubts  relative  to  many  parts  of  the  ear ;  and 
I  do  not  understand  the  subject  well  enough  to  give  you  much 
information.  I  will  merely  name  some  of  the  parts  and 
their  relative  situations.  We  have  first  the  external  ear, 
which  projecting  as  it  does  from  the  head,  is  perfectly  adapt 
ed  to  the  office  of  gathering  sounds,  and  transmitting  them 
to  the  membrane  of  the  tympanum,  commonly  called  the 
drum  of  the  ear,  from  its  resembling  somewhat,  in  its  use 
and  structure,  the  head  of  a  drum.  The  tympanum  is  a  cav 
ity,  of  a  cylindrical  or  tunnel  form,  and  its  office  is  supposed 
to  be  the  transmission  to  the  internal  ear  of  the  vibrations 
made  upon  the  membrane.  These  vibrations  are  first  com 
municated  to  the  malleus  or  hammer.  This  is  the  first  of 
four  bones,  united  in  a  kind  of  chain,  extending  and  con 
veying  vibrations  from  the  tympanum  to  the  labyrinth  of  the 
ear  beyond.  The  other  bones  are  the  incus,  or  anvil,  the 
round  bone,  and  the  stapes,  or  stirrup — the  latter  so  called 
from  its  resemblance  to  a  stirrup-iron.  It  is  placed  over  an 
oval  aperture,  which  leads  to  the  labyrinth,  and  which  is 
closed  by  means  of  a  membranous  curtain.  These  bone  are 
provided  with  very  small  muscles,  and  move  with  the  vibra 
tions  of  the  tympanum.  The  equilibrium  of  the  air  in  the 
tympanum  and  atmosphere  is  maintained  by  the  means  of  the 
Eustachian  tube,  which  extends  from  the  back  part  of  the 
fauces,  or  throat,  to  the  cavity  of  the  tympanum.  The  parts 
last  mentioned  constitute  the  middle  ear.  Of  the  internal 
ear  little  is  known.  It  has  its  semicircular  canals,  vestibules, 
and  cochlea  ;  but  their  agencies  are  not  ascertained. 

The  organ  of  smell  is  more  simple.  This  sense  lies,  or  is 
supposed  to  lie,  in  the  mucous  membrane  which  lines  the 
nostrils  and  the  openings  in  connection.  Particles  are  con 
stantly  escaping  from  odorous  bodies  ;  and,  by  being  inhaled 
in  respiration,  they  are  thrown  in  contact  with  the  mucous 
membrane. 

A.  Before  leaving  the  head,  will  you  tell  us  something  of 
the  organs  of  voiced 

/.  By  placing  your  finger  on  the  top  of  your  wind-pipe, 


A    CONVERSATION    ON    PHYSIOLOGY.  209 

you  will  perceive  a  slight  prominence.  In  males  this  is  very 
large.  This  is  the  thorax.  It  is  formed  of  four  cartilages, 
two  of  which  are  connected  with  a  third,  by  means  of  four 
chords,  called  vocal  chords,  from  their  performing  an  import 
ant  part  in  producing  the  voice.  Experiments  have  been 
made,  which  prove  that  a  greater  part  of  the  larynx,  except 
these  chords,  may  be  removed  without  destroying  the  voice. 
Magendie  thus  accounts  for  the  productiou  of  the  voice.  He 
says,  "  The  air,  in  passing  from  the  lungs  in  expiration,  is 
forced  out  of  small  cavities,  as  the  air-cells  and  the  minute 
branches  of  the  windpipe,  into  a  large  canal ;  it  is  thence 
sent  through  a  narrow  passage,  on  each  side  of  which  is  a 
vibratory  chord,  and  it  is  by  the  action  of  the  air  on  these 
chords,  that  the  sonorous  undulations  are  produced  which  are 
called  voice." 

E.  Do  not  the  lips  and  tongue  contribute  essentially  to 
speech  ? 

/.  They  do  not.  Hayward  says  he  can  bear  witness  to  the 
fact  that  the  articulation  remains  unimpaired  after  the  tongue 
has  been  removed.  The  labials,  f  and  v,  cannot  be  perfect 
ly  articulated  without  the  action  of  the  lips. — What  subject 
shall  we  take  next  \ 

A.  A  natural  transition  would  be  from  the  head  to  the 
heart,  and,  in  connection,  the  circulation  of  the  blood. 

/.  Yes.  I  will  give  you  an  abstract  of  the  ideas  I  gained 
in  the  study  of  Hay  ward's  Physiology,  and  the  reading  of  Dr. 
Paley's  Theology.  The  heart,  arteries,  and  veins  are  the 
agents  of  circulation.  The  heart  is  irregular  and  conical  in 
its  shape  ;  and  it  is  hollow  and  double. 

A.  There  is  no  channel  of  communication  between  these 
parts,  is  there  ? 

/.  None  ;  but  each  side  has  its  separate  office  to  perform. 
By  the  right,  circulation  is  carried  on  in  the  lungs ;  and  by 
the  left  through  the  rest  of  the  body.  I  will  mark  a  few 
passages  in  Paley,  for  you  to  read  to  us,  Ann.  They  will 
do  better  than  any  descriptions  of  mine. 

A.  I  thank  you,  Isabel,  for  giving  me  an  opportunity  to  lend 
you  temporary  relief. — "  The  disposition  of  the  blood-vessels, 
as  far  as  regards  the  supply  of  the  body,  is  like  that  of  the 
water-pipes  in  a  city,  viz.  large  and  main  trunks  branching 
oft'  by  smaller  pipes  (and  these  again  by  still  narrower  tubes) 
in  every  direction  and  towards  every  part  in  which  the  fluid 
which  they  convey  can  be  wanted.  60  far,  the  water-pipes 


210  MIND    AMONGST    THE   SPINDLES, 

which  serve  a  town  may  represent  the  vessels  which  can-} 
the  blood  from  the  heart.  But  there  is  another  thing  neces 
sary  to  the  blood,  which  is  not  wanted  for  the  water  ;  anc 
that  is,  the  carrying-  of  it  back  again  to  its  source.  For  this 
office,  a  reversed  system  of  vessels  is  prepared,  which,  unit 
ing  at  their  extremities  with  the  extremities  of  the  first  sys 
tem,  collects  the  divided  and  subdivided  streamlets,  first  by 
capillary  ramifications  into  larger  branches,  secondly  by  these 
branches  into  trunks  ;  and  thus  returns  the  blood  (almost  ex 
actly  inverting  the  order  in  which  it  went  out)  to  the  fountair 
whence  its  motion  proceeded.  The  body,  therefore,  contains 
two  systems  of  blood-vessels,  arteries  and  veins. 

"  The  next  thing  to  be  considered  is  the  engine  which 
works  this  machinery,  viz.,  the  heart.  There  is  provided  in 
the  central  part  of  the  body  a  hollow  muscle  invested  with 
spiral  fibres,  running  in  both  directions,  the  layers  intersect 
ing  one  another.  By  the  contraction  of  these  fibres,  the  sides 
of  the  muscular  cavity  are  necessarily  squeezed  together,  so 
as  to  force  out  from  them  any  fluid  which  they  may  at  that 
time  contain :  by  the  relaxation  of  the  same  fibres,  the  cavi 
ties  are  in  their  turn  dilated,  and,  of  course,  prepared  to  ad 
mit  every  fluid  which  may  be  poured  into  them.  Into  these 
cavities  are  inserted  the  great  trunks  both  of  the  arteries 
which  carry  out  the  blood,  and  of  the  veins  which  bring  it 
back.  As  soon  as  the  blood  is  received  by  the  heart  from 
the  veins  of  the  body,  and  before  that  is  sent  out  again  into 
its  arteries,  it  is  carried,  by  the  force  of  the  contraction  oi 
the  heart,  and  by  means  of  a  separate  and  supplementary 
artery,  to  the  lungs,  and  made  to  enter  the  vessels  of  the 
lungs,  from  which,  after  it  has  undergone  the  action,  what 
ever  it  may  be,  of  that  viscus,  it  is  brought  back,  by  a  large 
vein,  once  more  to  the  heart,  in  order,  when  thus  concocted 
and  prepared,  to  be  thence  distributed  anew  into  the  system. 
This  assigns  to  the  heart  a  double  office.  The  pulmonary 
circulation  is  a  system  within  a  system  ;  and  one  action  of 
the  heart  is  the  origin  of  both.  For  this  complicated  func 
tion  four  cavities  become  necessary,  and  four  are  accordingly 
provided  ;  two  called  ventricles,  which  send  out  the  blood, 
viz.,  one  into  the  lungs  in  the  first  instance,  the  other  in 
to  the  mass,  after  it  has  returned  from  the  lungs ;  two 
others  also,  called  auricles,  which  receive  the  blood  from  the 
veins,  viz.  one  as  it  comes  from  the  body  ;  the  other,  as  the 


A    CONVERSATION    ON    PHYSIOLOGY.  211 

same  blood  comes  a  second  time  after  its  circulation  through 
the  lungs." 

/.  That  must  answer  our  purpose,  dear  Ann.  Of  the 
change  which  takes  place  in  the  blood,  and  of  the  renewal 
of  our  physical  system,  which  is  effected  by  circulation,  1 
shall  say  nothing.  We  will  pass  to  respiration. 

]\.  Whose  popular  name  is  breathing  ? 

/.  Yes.  The  act  of  inhaling  air,  is  called  inspiration  ; 
that  of  sending  it  out,  expiration.  Its  organs  are  the  lungs 
and  windpipe.  The  apparatus  employed  in  the  mechanism 
of  breathing  is  very  complex.  The  windpipe  extends  from 
the  mouth  to  the  lungs. 

A.  How  is  it  that  air  enters  it  so  freely,  while  food  and 
drink  are  excluded  1 

I.  By  a  most  ingenious  contrivance.  The  opening  to  the 
pipe  is  called  glottis.  This  is  closed,  when  necessary,  by  a 
little  valve,  or  lid,  called  the  epiglottis  (epi  means  upon.) 

E.  And  this  faithful  sentinel  is  none  other  than  that  per 
pendicular  little  body  which  we  can  see  in  our  throats,  and 
which  we  have  dubbed  palate. 

/.  You  are  right,  Ellinora.  Over  this,  food  and  drink  pass 
on  their  way  to  the  road  to  the  stomach,  the  gullet.  The 
pressure  of  solids  or  liquids  tends  to  depress  this  lid  on  the 
glottis  ;  and  its  muscular  action  in  deglutition,  or  swallowing, 
tends  lo  the  same  effect.  As  soon  as  the  pressure  is  removed, 
the  lid  springs  to  its  erect  position,  and  the  air  passes  freely. 
Larynx  and  trachea  are  other  names  for  the  windpipe,  and 
pharynx  is  another  for  the  gullet.  The  larynx  divides  into 
two  branches  at  the  lungs,  and  goes  to  each  side.  Hence, 
by  subdivisions,  it  passes  off  in  numerous  smaller  branches, 
to  different  parts  of  the  lungs,  and  terminates  in  air-cells 
The  lungs,  known  in  animals  by  the  name  of  lights,  consist 
of  three  parts,  or  lobes,  one  on  the  right  side,  and  two  on 
the  left. 

Alice.  The  lights  of  inferior  animals  are  very  light  and 
porous — do  our  lungs  resemble  them  in  this  ? 

/.  Yes;  they  are  full  of  air-tubes  and  air-cells.  These, 
with  the  blood  vessels  and  the  membrane  which  connects 
(and  this  is  cellular,  that  is,  composed  of  cells,)  form  the 
lungs.  The  process  of  respiration  involves  chemical,  me 
chanical,  and  vital  or  physiological  principles.  Of  the  mech 
anism  I  shall  say  but  little  more.  You  already  know  that 
the  lungs  occupy  the  chest.  Of  this,  the  breast  bone  forms 


212  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

the  front,  the  spine,  the  back  wall.  Attached  to  this  bon 
are  twelve  ribs  on  each  side.  These  are  joined  by  muscles 
which  are  supposed  to  assist  in  elevating-  them  in  breathing 
thus  enlarging  the  cavity  of  the  chest.  The  lower  partitio 
is  formed  by  a  muscle  of  great  power,  called  the  diaphragm 
and  by  the  action  of  this  organ  alone  common  inspiration  ca 
be  performed.  Hay  ward  says,  "  The  contraction  of  thi 
muscle  necessarily  depresses  its  centre,  which  was  befor 
elevated  towards  the  lungs.  The  instant  this  takes  place,  th 
air  rushes  into  the  lungs  through  the  windpipe,  and  thu 
prevents  a  vacuum,  which  would  otherwise  be  produced  be 
tween  the  chest  and  lungs. ' '  Expiration  is  the  reverse  of  this 
The  chemistry  of  respiration  regards  the  change  produced  i 
the  blood  by  respiration.  To  this  change  I  have  before  allu 
ded. 

Ann.  When  we  consider  the  offices  of  the  heart  and  lungs 
their  importance  in  vital  economy,  how  dangerous  appear 
the  custom  of  pressing  them  so  closely  between  the  ribs  b 
tight  lacing  ? 

/.  Yes;  fearful  and  fatal  beyond  calculation!  And  on 
great  advantage  in  a  general  knowledge  of  our  physical  sys 
tern,  is  the  tendency  this  knowledge  must  have  to  correct  thi 
habit. 

A.  To  me  there  is  not  the  weakest  motive  for  tight  lacing 
Everything  but  pride  must  revolt  at  the  habit ;  and  there  i 
something  positively  disgusting  and  shocking  in  the  wasj 
like  form,  labored  breathing,  purple  lips  and  hands  of  th 
tight  lacer. 

E.  They  indicate  such  a  pitiful  servitude  to  fashion,  sue: 
an  utter  disregard  of  comfort,  when  it  comes  in  collision  wit! 
false  notions  of  elegance  !  Well  for  our  sex,  as  we  coul 
not  be  induced  to  act  from  a  worthier  motive,  popular  opin 
ion  is  setting  in  strongly  against  this  practice.  Many  of  ou 
authors  and  public  lecturers  are  bringing  strong  arms  and  be 
nevolent  hearts  to  the  work. 

A.  Yes;  but  to  be  perfectly  consistent,  should  not  th 
fashions  of  the  "  Lady's  Book,"  the  "  Ladies'  Companion/ 
and  of  "  Graham's  Magazine,"  be  more  in  keeping  with  th 
general  sentiment?  Their  contributors  furnish  essays,  dep 
recating  the  evils  of  tight  lacing,  and  tales  illustrative  of  it 
evil  effects,  yet  the  figures  of  the  plates  of  fashions  are  uni 
formly  most  unnaturally  slender.  And  these  are  offered  fo 
national  standards  ! 


A  CONVERSATION    ON    PHYSIOLOGY.  213 

E.  "  And,  more  's  the  pity,"  followed  as  such. 

/.  I  think  the  improvements  you  mention  would  only  cause 
a  temporary  suspension  of  the  evil.  They  might  indeed 
make  it  i\\e  fashion  to  wear  natural  waists  ;  but  like  all  other 
fashions,  it  must  unavoidahly  give  way  to  new  modes.  They 
might  lop  off  a  few  of  the  branches ;  but  science,  a  knowl 
edge  of  physiology  alone,  is  capable  of  laying  the  axe  at 
the  root  of  the  tree. — What  is  digestion,  Ellinora? 

E.  It  is  the  dissolving,  pulverizing,  or  some  other  ing,  of 
our  food,  isn't  it? 

/.  Hay  ward  says  that  "  it  is  an  important  part  of  that  pro 
cess  by  which  aliment  taken  into  the  body  is  made  to  nourish 
it."  He  divides  the  digestive  apparatus  into  "  the  mouth 
and  its  appendages,  the  stomach  and  the  intestines."  The 
teeth,  tongue,  jaws,  and  saliva,  perform  their  respective  offi 
ces  in  mastication.  Then  the  food  passes  over  the  epiglottis, 
you  recollect,  down  the  gullet  to  the  stomach.  The  saliva  is 
an  important  agent  in  digestion.  It  is  secreted  in  glands,  which 
pour  it  into  the  mouth  by  a  tube  about  the  size  of  a  wheat 
straw. 

Alice.  I  heard  our  physician  say  that  food  should  be  so 
thoroughly  masticated  before  deglutition  (you  see  I  have 
caught  your  technicals,  Isabel,)  that  every  particle  would  be 
moistened  with  the  saliva.  Then  digestion  would  be  easy 
and  perfect.  He  says  that  dyspepsia  is  often  incurred  and 
perpetuated  by  eating  too  rapidly. 

/.  Doubtless  this  is  the  case.  As  soon  as  the  food  reaches 
the  stomach,  the  work  of  digestion  commences  ;  and  the 
food  is  converted  to  a  mass,  neither  fluid  or  solid,  called 
chyme.  With  regard  to  this  process,  there  have  been  many 
speculative  theories.  It  has  been  imputed  to  animal  heat,  to 
putrefaction,  to  a  mechanical  operation  (something  like  that 
carried  on  in  the  gizzard  of  a  fowl,)  to  fermentation,  and 
maceration.  It  is  now  a  generally  adopted  theory,  that  the 
food  is  dissolved  by  the  gastric  juices. 

Ann.  If  these  juices  are  such  powerful  solvents,  why  do 
they  not  act  on  the  stomach,  when  they  are  no  longer  sup 
plied  with  subjects  in  the  shape  of  food  ? 

7.  According  to  many  authorities,  they  do.  Comstock  says 
that  "  hunger  is  produced  by  the  action  of  the  gastric  juices 
on  the  stomach."  This  theory  does  not  prevail,  however  ; 
for  it  has  been  proved  by  experiment,  that  these  juices  do  not 
act  on  anything  that  has  life. 
19 


214  MIND    AMONGST    THE    SPINDLES. 

Alice.  How  long  does  it  take  the  food  to  digest  ? 

/.  Food  of  a  proper  kind  will  digest  in  a  healthy  stomach, 
in  four  or  five  hours.  It  then  passes  to  the  intestines. 

Ann.  But  why  does  it  never  leave  the  stomach  until  thor 
oughly  digested  ? 

/.  At  the  orifice  of  the  stomach,  there  is  a  sort  of  a  valve, 
called  pylorus,  or  door-keeper.  Some  have  supposed  that 
this  valve  has  the  power  of  ascertaining  when  the  food  is  suf 
ficiently  digested,  and  so  allows  chyme  to  pass,  while  it  con 
tracts  at  the  touch  of  undigested  substances. 

A.  How  wonderful  ! 

/.  And  "  how  passing  wonder  He  who  made  us  such  !  " 

Alice.  No  wonder  that  a  poet  said — 

"  Strange  that  a  harp  of  thousand  strings 
Should  keep  in  tune  so  long  !  " 

Ann.  And  no  wonder  that  the  Christian  bends  in  lowly 
adoration  and  love  before  such  a  Creator,  and  such  a  Pre 


server 


E.  Now,  dear  Isabel,  will  you  tell  us  something  more? 

/.  Indeed,  Ellinora,  I  have  already  gone  much  farther 
than  I  intended  when  I  commenced.  But  I  knew  not  where 
to  stop.  Even  now,  you  have  but  just  commenced  the  study 
of  yourselves.  Let  me  urge  you  to  read  in  your  leisure  hours, 
and  reflect  in  your  working  ones,  until  you  understand  phys 
iology,  as  well  as  you  now  do  geography. 


14  DAY  USE 

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